


you can pretend this isn't what you want.

by residentdogenthusiast



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Crushing, F/M, Fluff, Foster Dad George Washington Trope, Interior Decorator, Internal Conflict, M/M, Minor Angst, Multi, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-07-27 06:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16213607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/residentdogenthusiast/pseuds/residentdogenthusiast
Summary: George Washington is just trying to adjust to life in New York. His interior decorator can help with that in more than one way.





	1. this doesn't feel like home.

**Author's Note:**

> based on the prompt ‘I’m an interior decorator and you hired me to make your house feel like a home.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on the prompt ‘I’m an interior decorator and you hired me to make your house feel like a home.’

“That’s the last one!” George’s adopted son, Alexander, calls to their exhausted band of movers. He quickly pays the men and flashes his father an excited grin as they leave.

They’ve all finally finished what had been a long day unloading and unpacking the several rented trucks into what would be the new Washington home. Long strands of Alexander’s black hair fall aimlessly from his ponytail and into his face as he sets the final box from the moving truck in the foyer of his father’s new house, and hands rest on his hips as he looks about the less-barren, but infinitely more disheveled and cluttered home that George Washington had purchased.

George takes a break to enjoy a chilled bottled of water and a rest on the staircase, eyes following his son’s with a sudden pang of homesickness and regret settling in his chest. Making the decision to move all the way from his familiar, quiet hometown in Virginia to the strange, bustling New York in order to expand his little book and cafe business had been _Alexander’s_ grand idea—and it was starting to feel like a horrible one.

Alex had  _insisted_ they base their headquarters—of what he  _also_ insisted was sure to be a chain franchise in no time—close to his family so that he could continue to help Washington out as the company treasurer. He had said that the teenagers he hired to help run the shop in Virginia were well and fine, but there was no they could take on the workload required—and Eliza absolutely had put her foot down at the idea of George running the place alone. So, George had passed over the running of the shop in Virginia to Martha's sister and packed up to move to New York.

Staring at the piles of boxes and feeling the distinct lack of homeliness Mount Vernon possessed, he’s starting to regret the big decision.

“It’s… it could just use some work and it’ll be just like Mount Vernon,” Eliza says when she notes the look of distaste on George’s face. Sweet, kind Eliza—George had always been grateful she’d taken pity and married his son. A good soul, and a good head on her shoulders—she was what Alex needed. But sometimes, her need to be kind was painfully obvious—especially when it came to the truth that was so blatantly staring them in the face. Anyone with eyes could see it was a far cry from the grande, lavish, memory-riddled home that Mount Vernon had been. “Just need the spiffy the place up. I know a really good interior decorator.”

Washington scratches at his head, looks up at the faces of his family. Alexander and Eliza both look hopeful—he knows it’s very important to them that he likes New York. They’d wanted him to be close to them as they started their family, especially considering that Eliza was nearing four months pregnant with their very first child. With Martha passed on, and Jimmy stationed abroad in South Korea… they were all each other had for now. George knows that they want him to not only love New York but love the idea of being there when little Phillip—he still insisted they’d be having a little Martha, had even put fifty dollars on it—came into the world.

But he _already_ misses Mount Vernon, and he’s only been in his new house for a maximum of three hours. He’d _grown up_ on that estate. He had been born there in the downstairs foyer, he had witnessed his mother give birth to his little brother in the third-floor guest bedroom. His parents had raised him there, he had lived there his entire life. Scraped his first knee, said his first words, learned to ride a bicycle… all on the ground of the vast Mount Vernon estates. He’d gotten married to Martha there on the gardens, and they’d signed Alexander and James’ adoption papers in the little room he called an office upstairs. He’d raised Alex and Jimmy there with Martha. Had met his son’s future wife, had watched Alexander propose to Eliza there…

Martha had passed on there, after twenty years of marriage.

Their entire lives had been founded on Mount Vernon. Hell, the idea for his little bookshop, _A Revolutionary Read_ had been thought up sitting on the porch swing, sipping lemonade with Martha and trying to convince Alexander that they were  _not_ renovating yet another room to make into a library for all of his books.

“I don’t know,” he admits, chewing the inside of his lip in deep thought—a habit that Martha had often described as ‘adorable’. Eliza and Alex’s faces fall simultaneously at his words, and they exchange looks. “I think it’s best if I just run the shop in Virginia, and you run this one Alexander.”

“George, you _know_ that’s not what any this is about,” he says disdainfully, crossing his arms over his chest. Eliza places a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder, but he shrugs it off. “We’re starting our family here. We wanted Phillip to be able to come to see his grandfather every _weekend_ , not just every holiday.”

“ _Martha_ ,” he says, a light teasing in his voice. His son rolls his eyes, though a small smile teases at his lips. “would love Virginia. You and Jimmy used to have _so much fun_ in the gardens, Alex, and you loved going to the stables. I can’t even own horses here. This place doesn’t feel like home to me, Alexander. Besides, I want to be close to Martha.”

 _And Martha is buried in Virginia,_ he thinks solemnly. The guilt of leaving his wife in a cemetery some four-hundred thirteen miles away churns his stomach into what feels like slush—and nearly makes up his mind about returning home.

Sighing in relent, Eliza excuses herself—stepping away to where she’d set her purse on one of the many boxes piled atop each other. George watches her root around in the large bag for a few moments, muttering something under breath, before she resurfaces with a small business card. He notices immediately that the business card is a far cry from formal—with pops of color and rainbow swirls decorating the small square.

Approaching her father-in-law, she hands him the card and he examines it carefully.

 **GILBERT DU MOTIER DE LAFAYETTE  
** **INTERIOR DECORATOR & DESIGNER  
** **BY APPOINTMENT OR REFERENCE ONLY!  
** **CALL FOR MORE DETAILS @ (212) 145-4937  
** **OR EMAIL US AT** [ **glafdesigns@gmail.com** ](mailto:glafdesigns@gmail.com)

“He’s the best interior decorator in New York. He has a studio in Manhattan, but it’s super avant-garde. He doesn’t broadcast his address or anything, and you can only get these cards if you’ve met him or know someone that knows him,” she explains. “Alexander and I are very close friends with him. He can make this place feel exactly like Mount Vernon.”

“Elizabeth, I—”

“Please, George,” she says, sitting beside him on the staircase. Instinctively, he wraps his arms around her shoulders as though she’s his daughter—because she is—and she rests her head on his shoulder. Gently, Eliza lifts his other hand and places flat-palmed over the barely forming bump beneath her top. It doesn’t take long for Alexander to join them—his fingers lacing with Eliza’s free hand and his other hand resting beside his father’s on her stomach. “At least call him. For _Martha_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy is James Hamilton, Alexander's little brother.


	2. the interior designer.

“Adrienne, do we have that template for the Weeks family prepared? I meet with them before lunch today and their daughter _really_ wants to see that ocean-themed room I told her about,” Gilbert’s thickly-accented voice calls to wherever his best friend is, as he navigates through the—surprisingly tiny, considering how popular their services were—office space to pick up the bedazzled binder filled with photographs of all of his proudest designs and arrangements. Despite the atrocity of a binder serving as his reference book for going on four years, he still cringed at how tacky the jewels on the cover was—and vowed never to let Ségur touch another one of his things when there was a bedazzler nearby. Speaking of… “And where is Ségur? Wait, don’t tell me. He is with Diane?”

Adrienne gives a snort of acknowledgment.

As cliche as it sounded, Monday mornings were always the busiest for their little interior decorating business. They only had three people working in the shop currently—Gilbert, Adrienne, and Ségur, the latter of whom was always _extremely_ late—but had nearly hundreds of clients between them. Not only that but hundreds of very, very well-paying clients. It had originally been why Lafayette had been so selective with his clientele—there were only so many cases that each of them could take on at a time without becoming stressed. And though he’d always been an excellent multitasker, the last thing he wanted to do was get so stretched thin that he stopped giving each and every home he decorated his one hundred percent.

“Right here,” Adrienne says, handing him the laminated paper, and checking an email—all while enjoying a snack of caramel-dipped apples. Now, Adrienne, was someone could multitask. “This room is far too elevated for the modern minimalism you want for the rest of the house, though. Why not do this edited version Ségur came up with?”

Lafayette pauses where he’d been thumbing through his book to take a look at the suggestion she presents. “He did that? For which client?”

Swallowing her mouthful of apple sweetness, she says, “Mm. Not a client, a friend. You know Angelica just bought that new place in Jersey and her husband wanted a Little Mermaid theme for their child's nursery.”

Gilbert gives her a look—a look that flushes her cheeks and rolls her eyes. He had stopped asking whether or not Adrienne still maintained what seemed to be her infinite amount of crushes—it only confused him. She seemed to fall in love with someone new every morning, and fall out of love by dinner. But when he _did_ recognize a name that she’d previously gushed about, she got her fair share of teasing.

He’s just about to begin a string of teases when he gets a ring on his telephone. Glancing down at the screen, he’s surprised to see its Alexander—a close college friend, possibly one of his closest and only ones outside of France. “ _Alexandre! Bonjour! C'est une si belle surprise. Je pensais appeler pour faire des projets pour vendredi soir.”_

“Hi, Alex!” Adrienne calls from beside him, before mouthing ‘Speak English’ and disappearing back into the backrooms—where all of their offices are. He sticks his tongue out after her. Adrienne had been obsessed with assimilation ever since they’d moved to America from France at fourteen, but he wouldn’t dare let her take away his home tongue from him.

“Hey, Laf, hey Adri!” Alex says, but he sounds distracted. Obviously, this was not a friendly call, which was fine. Lafayette was used to his friends calling him at random hours of the day for designing tips or favors. Not so much Alex, but… “Plans… Friday? I need to ask Eliza, I think she has a dinner planned with our parents. Could be Saturday. Speaking of, I need a favor.”

“A favor?” he asks, brow furrowing. Setting down the binder, he immediately picks up his notepad—where he took notes when a friend called to ask for help. Alexander Hamilton didn’t ask for favors. He had almost allowed himself to be homeless for a year of college when he’d been too prideful to ask for Lafayette to stay at his more than spacious apartment—too embarrassed to call and tell his father he’d forgotten to fill out his dorm room forms in the flurry of his Junior year.

“Yeah. Uh… George moved to New York.” Lafayette gasps in surprise.

George Washington. He remembers his best friend’s father fondly, and his inner fourteen-year-old flushes completely at the thought of the man. He’d had a nearly-unhealthy, schoolboy crush on his best friend’s foster—and later, adoptive—father in middle school. After meeting Alexander through a string of French Pop group chats and finding out that he, too, lived in Virginia—at the time, Gilbert and Adrienne had been sent to live with the Jefferson’s, Gilbert’s uncle and aunt and a family friend of Adrienne’s—he had immediately taken a trip to spend the summer with the family. Upon invitation by Alexander’s mother, Martha.

Unfortunately, that summer he developed that everlasting, almost embarrassing crush on his best friend’s father that went on until he nearly graduated from high school. Though, Alexander often teased that his crush only ‘went away’ because he came to terms with how deeply in love George was with his wife, and how it would never happen.

A distinct memory he had of when he had come out to Alex’s parents—after his own mother, so deep in her illness that she could barely recognize her own son, had disowned him as a ' _pédé_ ’'—and the Washington’s had held him tightly as he sobbed. He remembers the way George’s arms wrapped around his shaking frame, strong hands tilted his chin up, and large thumbs wiped away his tears as the man reminded him that he always had a family with the Washington’s.

Gilbert rolls his eyes at himself. This was childish. He was an adult now, and those days were gone.

“How can I help, _mon amie_?” he asks confidently. Even if he  _didn’t_ have a history of crushing on the man, Gilbert is more than eager to help Mr. Washington. The Washington’s had been a reprieve for most of his angst-riddled prepubescence and Mount Vernon was just a staple in his childhood as Monticello or Chavaniac was.

“He wants to move back because his new place doesn’t feel like home. Can you help us make it look a little more like Mount Vernon? So he’ll stay?” he asks, and he can hear Alexander doing that thing he so hated—lighting up a cigarette. A habit he thought he’d broken. After all, Gilbert had quit on the entire premise that he would, too.

“Of course,” Gilbert says, just as Adrienne reappears. She raises an eyebrow and he mouths ‘new case’. It's her turn to roll her eyes, and turn away from her brother. “Give me the address. I’ll come by today, after lunch.”

* * *

  **Translations**

 _**Bonjour! C'est une si belle surprise. Je pensais appeler pour faire des projets pour vendredi soir.** _ — Good morning! What a nice surprise. I was thinking of calling to make plans for Friday night.

 ** _Pédé_** — Queer ; Faggot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so for my understanding of the French slur for gay people being pédé, it can be used to ask simply ‘Are you gay?’ or it can be used as a slur. If any French speakers can offer corrections on that, I’d be more than happy to come to change it
> 
> also, you know that song Someone New by Hozier? that literally describes Adrienne.


	3. a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter isn’t gonna be much, just a forewarning

George doesn’t know why it takes him so long to recognize the name on the card. It sits, taped to his refrigerator over the weekend—where he’d put it the evening that Eliza and Alex had left and returned their own home. From Saturday through Sunday, he is forced to stare at the card—when he places the leftovers of his takeouts in the fridge that Saturday evening, when he goes grocery shopping on Sunday morning, when he makes himself dinner on Sunday evening, when gets the marmalade out of the fridge Monday morning. After all, it represents a very a monumental decision for his life—stay in New York, and be there for his grandchild’s birth or go back home to Mount Vernon, and be there with his wife. He examines the grooves of the fancy letters on the card, the way the ‘f’ on Lafayette curls into the ‘a’. He debates typing the number on the card into his phone. He actually _does_ type it. He never calls.

So why is it that he doesn’t realize that the Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette on the fancily designed card is the same Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette that used to spend summers and holidays at his estate back home until he sees the man pull up to the home?

The sleek, black convertible pulls into his driveway at fifteen to two in the afternoon, while he’s working on his garden. The garden he and Martha had maintained on Mount Vernon had always held a special space in his heart, with their towering rose bushes and rows of vegetables. They'd even planted four mango trees in the backyard—two for the children they lost, and two for the children they raised. It just makes sense that he’d be outside starting on _that_ instead of inside, unpacking the many boxes that awaited his attention.

At first, George just thinks someone is attempting to do a U-turn by using his driveway, but when the car shuts off and he hears the door open, he realizes that it is very much not that. Rising from where he knelt in the soil and dusting off his knees—wincing at a pain that spreads through them, the knowledge that he's getting a little too old for this gnawing at him—he turns to find a strikingly familiar face. _I just can't put my finger on it._

A tall man exits the car with a wave, and the first thing George thinks as he waves back is that this man does _not_ look like he should be owning such an expensive looking convertible. He’s dressed simply—more accurately he could be described as a college student coming from class than someone with the money and prestige for that kind of vehicle. With a pair of distressed jeans, casual vans and a low-neck v-neck shirt that shows off his collarbones, he can’t be any older than twenty, maybe twenty-one.

The most telling feature that strikes George as familiar is a head full of curls pulled back into a ponytail, with a few strands falling from the ponytail to frame the man’s face. Not in the way Alexander usually does—by accident, after a long day of running his fingers through his hair making him look more disheveled than usual—but deliberately, to pull off a sort of careful carelessness.

It makes him look handsome and gives off a drawing allure that has George just a little bit enraptured.

“Hello,” George says when he realizes he’s staring. Pulling his gardening gloves from his fingers, he approaches the man to extend his hand. “Can I help you?”

The man pushes a pair of shades off of his face, black-rimmed hazel eyes twinkling as he ignores the handshake to pull the other man in for a hug. That’s when George finally realizes why this man is so familiar, and his stoic discomfort that he usually puts off around strangers melts as he does. Arms wrap tightly around the younger man’s frame, squeezing him into a crushing hug. “Gil! Is that _you_? Oh, you’ve grown up, I didn’t even _recognize_ you!”

He simply cannot believe that the man standing in front of him is the same rosy-cheeked boy that, after walking across the stage for his graduation, sobbed tears of joy into his arms—babbling his gratitude in French to the Washington family.  And when George and Martha had seen Gilbert and their son off to Columbia University a few months later, both had still been lanky young men still coming into their own. Awkward and gangly on their new Bambi legs of adulthood.

But Gilbert had matured nicely from that, and he'd certainly grown from a boy into a man.

Gilbert laughs, rocking the two of them sideways a bit as he hugs the older man back. Washington becomes distinctly aware of the perfume he wears, an airy sweet smell that smells distinctly of candy. “Monsieur Washington! How are you, _chéri_?”

When the two of them pull away from the hug, it strikes George. The card. **_GILBERT DU MOTIER DE LAFAYETTE, INTERIOR DECORATOR & DESIGNER._ ** As Martha used to tell him, _If it was a snake it would have bit you._ “ _You’re_ the interior designer Eliza and Alex were telling me about? You told me you were going to school to be a fashion designer!”

Gilbert laughs again, a light thing that makes George smile, and says, “I was. I _did_. I changed my major halfway through completing my Bachelor’s. Come, let’s go inside—it is blistering out here, is it not?”

Conceding, Washington gestures for Gilbert to lead the way into the home and the two of them head inside. The cool air of the conditioning stifles the heat coming in from outside, and the two of them make their way to the kitchen—the only room in the house that Washington had gotten around to fully unpacking and arranging. Taking a seat on a stool at the island, Gilbert places a bedazzled binder on the counter as George pours each of them a glass of orange juice. It feels a bit like those summers when Gil would come downstairs—still wearing the oversized shirt he had as a nightgown and yawning—for breakfast. Dozing off at the table as George poured up everyone’s juice because he and Alex had stayed up too late watching movies and talking.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, setting the glass in front of the younger man. Gil thanks him and takes the glass, taking a few polite sips. “I don’t have any tea or lemonade made, yet. Juice and coffee is all I have. I’ve just been so… _busy_. With the move, and the bookshop… have you been by the bookshop, yet? It looks much fancier than the one in Virginia, Alexander really did a fantastic job with it.”

Washington becomes aware that he seems to be babbling, but he can’t help himself. It was nice to talk to someone that wasn’t Alexander, Eliza or the kind barista at the bookshops cafè, Teddy. Not only that, but he’d enjoyed Lafayette’s company, even when the man was just that awkward little boy. Gilbert had always reminded him of Martha—kind yet firm, compassionate and still stubborn when need be. Martha once commented to George that Lafayette seemed to be the only person on Earth that could get Alexander to slow down for a few seconds and smell the roses, just as she had been for George. The two of them used to muse about what kind of wedding the boys would have, or how many grandchildren they’d give them.

But then Alexander brought home Eliza, and Lafayette was the best man at his wedding.

“I haven’t,” Lafayette admits, before reaching over to place a hand on George’s. It’s a small gesture of comfort, but it means the world to George—who gives him a tired smile. “Alexandre told me to come over and talk decorating with you—to make this place more resemble a home than a house. But you honestly look like the last thing you could use is a boring design discussion.”

“You have no idea, Gil,” he says, feeling the tiredness wash over him in a crashing wave. Ever intuitive, Lafayette was right—the last thing he wanted to think about was Alexander or this house or how much Alexander wanted him to love this house. There were a million other things on his mind at the moment, and it felt nice to finally have someone to talk to them about. “I am exhausted.”

Gilbert makes a small little noise from the back of his throat as he says, “You know, you’re the only one that calls me Gil anymore. Everyone calls me Lafayette now, Mr. Washington.”

“Well, I’m not everyone, am I?” George asks, reaching for his glass of orange juice. There’s a funny look on Gilbert’s face as he says this, and the younger shifts in his seat before picking up his own glass.

“You’re right. You’re not. So tell me, why the move to New York?”

* * *

**Translations**

**_chéri_ ** — darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof I love them so much. also, laf does wear eyeliner and the occasional lip gloss (very very very special occasions) and chapstick, but he doesn't wear a full face as he does in a lot of my one-shots.
> 
> also also: two chapters at once because I meant to post tues and thursday, but I have pneumonia so only right now have I felt good enough to post


	4. s'il vous plaît ne baise pas mon père.

Despite Lafayette’s insistence that it’s fine and he doesn’t mind spending the rest of his workday catching up with an old friend—George wasn’t the only one that could use a break and a good conversation—the two of them do manage to actually discuss the reason the young Frenchman had made the house call in the first place. They walk throughout the—actually, fairly nice—house, with Washington pointing out all the flaws he sees in it and Lafayette brainstorming ways to make him love it.

Out of the four hours Lafayette spends at the man’s house, thirty minutes is spent discussing designs, looking at templates, trying to get a feeling for George's vision and making an appointment for him to go over to begin his work. They decide on a Wednesday—after Gilbert makes a little white lie as to whether or not he hires a team to help him with his projects—and bid each other goodbye. He winds up leaving with a box full of old family photos taken at Mount Vernon and the sun hanging low in the sky.

After stopping by his favorite takeout place, he manages to get back to the apartment he shares with his best friend, Hercules. Gilbert doesn’t even realize how rejuvenating it was to talk about something other than work until he notices that, unlike usual, he enters the apartment less tired than usual. Hercules and his girlfriend are sitting on the couch when he enters, watching what seems to be a marathon of Disney movies judging by the VHS tapes stacked on the coffee table. Gilbert remembers teasing him that he was the only person on Earth that still owned a VHS Player when they'd moved in together.

“ _Ugh,_ _The Hunchback de Notre Dame? Je déteste ce film,_ ” he says with a groan, squeezing in on the couch on the other side of Maria and setting the takeout on the coffee table beside the movies. “I bought home Italian.”

“I don’t know what you just said exactly, but I know enough and I will not stand for Notre Dame slander in this household,” Hercules says, reaching over to open the bag. Lafayette says nothing in response, simply opening the binder of family photos that George had sent him home with to flip through the photos. Each and every one of them brings a wave of nostalgia, especially the ones of Alexander. “Ooh, what’s that? Finally, replace that tacky work binder?”

“No, George sent me home with this. It’s photos of Mount Vernon. Well, no, photos that were taken at Mount Vernon,” he explains, eyes landing on a picture—one that seems even older than George Washington. When he gingerly removes the photo from the plastic and flips it over, it reads _Mount Vernon, built 1758. Photograph taken 1823_ in delicate handwriting. He mouths ‘wow’. “You know Alexander's family has been in Mount Vernon since 1758? I can understand his dad not wanting to move away from the place. That's a lot of history to have in one place.”

“Wait, Alexander’s dad? George Washington? That guy you never got over? Your best friend’s father that you totally want to fuck?” Hercules asks, reaching up to pause the movie. Maria places her plate of food on the coffee table and mutters something about going to open a glass of wine. He glares at the both of them, placing the photo back where he got it. “You were just with  _him_? Well, no wonder it took you so long getting home! You two finally cured that sexual tension, huh? What was it like?”

For the first time in their six years of friendship, Lafayette regrets telling Hercules something. To be fair, Hercules only knew of the—frankly, embarrassing—crush because while the two of them had been at Alexander’s wedding during his Junior year of college, he’d been unable to stop staring at Mr. Washington. In Lafayette’s own defense, the man had looked dashing in his tuxedo. Clean cut and strong. And the schoolboy crush that Gilbert had thought he was over had quickly come flooding back. But then George and Martha had taken the dance floor as parents of the groom and he’d remembered why it didn’t work in High School and why it wouldn’t work then—George Washington was too in love with his wife.

He hadn't even noticed him that night. Or at least, not in the way he'd hoped.

Hercules had carried his more-than-drunk self back to the Taxi and held him as he ranted about how _totally unfair_ the whole thing was. Lafayette tries not to feel guilty about what he’d said that night— _I wish Martha would just… disappear._ —as he shakes his head clear of those thoughts. It doesn't help that the next page in the album he flips to, is filled with George and Martha's wedding photos.

“Shut up. It isn’t like that. I’m just decorating his place. Trying to make it more… homey,” Maria rejoins them now, three glasses in one hand and a bottle of Arbor Mist. Lafayette nearly snorts at how tacky it is but accepts the glass anyways. “Thank you, _chéri_.”

“You redecorate his place, and maybe he'll redecorate your insides with his dick,” she says, grinning mischievously. Lafayette rolls his eyes at her crassness—for what seems like the billionth time since he's met her—and opens up his plateful of vegetarian spaghetti. Beside her, Hercules alternates between fake-gagging at the mental image and laughter at his girlfriend's phrasing. “You can't say you haven't already schemed at least _one_ way to get that man in your boxers. I know you better than that.”

Lafayette would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it. Despite telling himself that his juvenile crush on his best friends father was a thing of the past, Gilbert is unable to stop thinking about all the untapped potential that lies within George Washington. People talked in Virginia, especially Alexandria, which was close to the Washington home. Everyone knew that George and Martha went on ‘dates’ together, and the third party was rarely—if _ever_ —a woman. George is bisexual at least, a deeply closeted gay that used his wife as a beard for twenty years at most.

And it's not like he doesn't think, had he been literally anyone else, he wouldn't have a chance.  People could say he was arrogant or conceited all they wanted, but Gilbert had always taken care of himself. He looked damned good and was possibly the most eligible bachelor in their friends' group to date.

But that's just the thing. He isn't anyone else. George only knew him as his sons best friend, maybe even an adopted son, too. Lafayette knows that Mr. Washington would most likely never see him that way—he'd never be able to see past the awkward middle schooler that Gil had grown out of being. And even if he could, even if he did put all of that behind them and see the younger man as he was today…

“His wife just died. A year ago,” Gilbert sighs, feeling guilt wash over him. This is awful, he thinks, shame encapsulating his every fiber of being. Martha had taken him in, mothered him when his own mother had been too sick to do it herself. And unlike his Uncles, she hadn't thrown designer clothes or all expense paid vacations at him in hopes that money would raise him to be a decent young man. He quite literally owed that woman the very foundation of his character. Lusting after her widowed husband only one year after she'd been put to rest was a new low, even for him. “Can we change the subject now?”

Maria makes a small ‘o’ with her mouth, and Hercules coughs out an awkward apology. However, they do grant him his wish when Maria says, “Susan was asking for her Uncle Laffy before she fell asleep. I think she's getting used to you and Hercules replacing James and his crony.”

The three of them enjoy a more pleasant conversation that bounces between unrelated subjects after that—one of those being a twenty-minute long argument on why spaghetti with meatless sauce was _not_ a disgrace to Italian culture—before Lafayette finally feels the wine and tiredness of the day set in. Bidding a goodnight to the couple, he retires up the stairs of their little home. After checking in on Susan—who sleeps soundly in the guest bedroom, snuggled up to her favorite stuffed animal—he makes his way to his room and collapses onto the plush handmade comforter. Still fully dressed—which was usually a big no-no for him—into his bed.

He quickly finds that he can’t sleep though, so he opens up the binder and begins flipping through it again. He’s looking at a picture of Alexander when he was a toddler—and considering taking a photo to tease the man—when he gets a text message from the person in question. Speak of the devil.

 **from** _mon petit lion_  
>dad wants you to come to the dinner next Saturday night  
_> s'il vous plaît ne baise pas mon père _

That one earns him a dry chuckle, and he sends a quick kissy-face emoji that he knows will deeply unsettle his best friend. He’s right, as immediately after he gets a string of vomiting emojis.

 **from** _(703) 630-5632_  
>Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette?  
>It’s George.  
>Washington. It’s George Washington.  
>Now, we both have each other’s number.

After quickly typing in an—admittedly, self-indulgent—name for the man in his phone, Lafayette responds. He’d never admit that there’s a smile on his face as he does. The smile broadens when, almost immediately after, his phone vibrates with another text.

All the thoughts about disrespecting Martha fly out the window—if only for a moment, at least. _Maudit ma faiblesse pour un homme bon,_ he thinks, unable to stop reading the message over and over again.

 **to** _mon chéri_  
>That we do.  
>Goodnight, George. Sleep well.

 **from** _mon chéri_  
>Goodnight, Gilbert.  
>Sleep tight.

* * *

**Translations**

**_Ugh, The Hunchback of Notre Dame? Je déteste ce film._** — Ugh, The Hunchback of Notre Dame? I hate that movie.

 **_S'il vous plaît ne baise pas mon père._ ** — Please do not fuck my dad.

 **_Maudit ma faiblesse pour un homme bon._ ** — Cursed my weakness for a good man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these substanceless chapters are getting annoying but i promise, we’ll get there.
> 
> also, George and Martha became the foster parents of James and Alex when Alex was four and James was a baby (which was about four months after their mother died and their father left). They adopted them when Alex was 8 and James was 4.


	5. you're my daddy, mr. washington.

George always liked Wednesdays. He figured it had something to do with the fact that both he and his oldest son had gotten married on a Wednesday, or Wednesdays had been family game nights when the boys were still living at home. To him, they also seemed to be the most peaceful day of the week. Not accompanied by the busy catching up that came with Mondays and Tuesdays, but also not underlined by the excited buzz that came with Thursdays and Fridays.

Maybe, this week, it’s because Gilbert is coming to work on the house on Wednesday. He’d asked if the young Frenchman had a team to do that with, but apparently, there were only three people that worked for his little business and they all had projects of their own to do—each house, room or space they designed, they did entirely on their own. It was a one-man show painting and decorating an entire home by himself. Which, after Gilbert gives him access to his portfolio-website, George realizes is an amazing feat in and of itself.

But of course, Washington being the Southern Gentleman he was raised as, couldn't just leave the man alone to do it all—didn't seem right, especially considering the young man was already giving him a substantial discount _and_ waiving any clean-up fees that might occur. _Not that it’s my fault,_ he reminds himself. _The stubborn kid just wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sounds familiar._

It’s this feeling that has him waking up early Wednesday morning, calling in to tell the bookshop he wouldn’t be in for the day—completely ignoring Eliza’s insinuation that it was a breakfast date keeping him home—and attempting to make himself useful by opening the cans of paints Gil had ordered to his home. Its all just tedious busy work—and George won't admit it to anyone but God—to distract him from the fact that he's excited at the idea of spending an entire day alone together with Gilbert.

On the occasion that he _does_ willingly admit to himself that he's bursting at the seems to see the young man again, he tells himself its because he sees him as a sort of comfort. Another reminder of home that gave him a reason to try to like New York. Or that its because they haven't seen each other since Alexander’s wedding, and he enjoyed catching up on lost time.

It has nothing to do with those enchanting black-rimmed hazel eyes that gleamed with enthusiasm whenever he got to discussing wallpapers or curtain fabrics. Or how soft his lips looked after applying a layer of the honey-flavored chapstick he carried around. Or how his smile seemed to have lit up the entirety of Brooklyn.

In his truest of hearts, George knows the way he’s begun to see Gilbert is wrong. His attraction to the young man is borderline perverted, especially when taking all things into consideration. Gilbert is twenty-something years his junior. _Jimmy_ was younger than their age difference, which already set off some pretty loud alarm bells.   _And_ he'd known the kid since he was just that—a kid. No matter how attractive Gilbert had gotten, or how much he'd matured, in George's eyes? He was a child. Or at least, he should be.

Besides, Martha has _just_ passed on—it feels as though her body isn't even cold yet. He'd already moved onto another home, leaving her behind nearly five hundred miles in Virginia. And even though Alexander, James, and Eliza all insist that she'd want him to move on and find happiness, he seriously doubts that she'd want him taking another to his bed so soon. Especially if that ‘another’ was the same young boy she'd always called her third son.

Still, he can't control the twist of excitement in his stomach when the doorbell rings.

Gilbert arrives earlier than expected, at nine in the morning, with McDonald’s breakfast in one hand and his phone in the other—typing away with a skilled speed that George could never even dream to possess on those new-fangled devices.

He looks… admittedly, very… _sexy_ —which both excites _and_ worries George, as he’d never really seen the young man in that particular light before. It brought him back to his earlier thoughts—he should be seeing an older version of that brace-faced teenager, not this… Greek Adonis standing in his foyer. But wearing his tank top and shorts, the twenty-five-year-old is rapidly losing their position in his mind as Alex’s teenage friend. It doesn’t help that he’s obviously trying to show off his athletic legs. Gilbert’s always been tall, but his long, lithe legs that disappear beneath the fabric of his shorts and show off his ass in away that—

It takes a moment for the older man to realize he’s staring, and another moment for the shame to set in. _You've become the classic perverted old man,_ he thinks bitterly to himself. Embarrassed, Washington looks away—feeling like an old creep for his uncontrolled gawking. Its not even Lafayette's gender that unsettles him.

He'd always known he had an attraction to men—Martha had called him out on trying to stay in the closet in High School and had practically forced him to come to terms with his sexuality and deal with his own internalized homophobia. Especially when they first began trying to bring children into the world. _How’re you gonna cope if one of our kids comes out as gay or bi or whatever and you haven’t even dealt with your own shit?_ she used to lecture, every time he’d open his mouth to compliment a cute barista and then slam it shut again.

In the late-eighties, early-to-mid-nineties, when sex began to be more free-thinking and open-minded again, they even used to have ‘dates’ together. He remembers fondly leaving Alexander and James with a babysitter to go off and have a little bit of private _adult_ indulgence. Always in a hotel room away from home, and usually with men that didn’t ask too many questions about the wedding rings on their fingers. Martha had been his biggest supporter when he told her he was bisexual and taught him how to support Alex when he'd done the same.

He isn’t sure if she’d be his biggest supporter in ogling one of the boys she’d always seen as a son, though. And _that's_ what makes him nervous. _Maybe if Gilbert was forty-two-year-old interior decorator…_

“I bought breakfast!” Gilbert exclaims cheerily when he finally looks up and away from his phone, setting the fast food down on the coffee table—the only thing in the living room that George had gotten around to moving out of the basement. “You know, McDonald's _really_ should have better vegetarian options. I had to settle with just getting hash browns.”

“It's almost as if the unhealthiest restaurant on Earth wasn't made for fruits and veggies, Gil,” George teases, cracking open the second can of paint and laying the lid aside. For the first time since he’d begun the tedious task that morning, he notices that the color of the paint is the same tacky teal green that Mount Vernon had been. That _awful_ color that Martha had picked out for the home—as was a tradition for the wives of Mount Vernon to do—that had made his mother recoil in disgust and his brother give a hearty chuckle.

Gilbert sticks his tongue out at him for the jab, joining him on the fluffy white carpet of the living room and pulling the grease-stained brown bag into his lap. At least _this_ feels natural between the two of them, reminiscent of the good old days. All it needs is for Jimmy to make some sort of crass joke, Martha to reach across the table to flick his ear, and Alex to snicker at his brother's misfortune. It’s almost a bit… nostalgic. Even despite the several missing bodies.

He makes a mental note to call his Jimmy, later.

“Here. Enjoy your pancake and sausage platter, you filthy meat-eater,” Gilbert says with fake disgust, crinkling up his face as if he’d smelled something awful and handing over the platter from the bag. George accepts it with a ‘thank you’ and watches with curious eyes as the younger of the two unwraps the little hashbrown from the paper. “I got you ketchup for your eggs, and strawberry jam because they didn’t have marmalade, sorry… what are you staring at?”

“Is that all you're eating? Where’s the rest of your breakfast?” he asks, taking the bag from his lap. All that is left is George’s fork— _which he nabs_ —strawberry jam and ketchup— _How did he remember that?_ —and a handful of napkins.

“Everything else either had meat on or around it,” he says with a wrinkled nose—picking up his phone again to type out a message. He mutters something about someone named Ségur and sets down his hashbrown to text back faster. This earns another curious glance from Washington, this time accompanied by a frown. “ _Seriously_ , Mr. Washington, it’s _fine_. I had a small orange juice on the way over, too. If I eat too much, I’ll be too stuffed to work and we won’t get anything done.”

“You can't _just_ eat that, or you’ll work yourself into exhaustion. Here, share with me,” he says with finality, tearing open the little plastic covering the fork with his teeth.

Gilbert stares at him for a second before shaking his head. There’s laughter in his voice when he says, “Mr. Washington, I—”

“Shut up and eat the eggs,” George cuts him off with a huff, stabbing the overly processed eggs with his fork—actually quite cold, now—and shoveling a healthy mouthful between the young man's unexpecting lips. Gilbert can’t argue with him at this point—considering his mouth is full—but the look on his face is almost comical. His eyes widen and his cheeks flush pink—while simultaneously bulging from the amount of eggs he was given—and the expression is only made more dramatic when Washington wipes a little bit of egg from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “And call me George. You’re not fifteen anymore.”

The look would become truly laughable if he didn’t look so goddamn cute. If George didn’t get just the slightest urge to kiss that little bit of egg off instead of nudging it away. He almost shudders at his own creepiness.

After chewing and swallowing the mouthful of food with careful thought, Gilbert finally nods his head in agreement. “You’re right, I’m not fifteen. So you don’t have to feed me like you’re my Daddy, Mr. Washington.”

George doesn’t know why, but this time he’s forced to swallow—quickly, and with too much air filling his lungs. Only there aren’t any eggs in his mouth to act as an excuse. In fact, he pathetically begins choking on his own air—coughing harshly and deeply until Gilbert disappears and returns with a glass of water from the tap. He gulps down the lukewarm drink like a thirsty man stuck in a desert, desperately trying to get his bearing about him.

“Oh my God, are you alright?” Gilbert exclaims as he removes the glass from the man's lips once its empty. There’s a heart-touching concern in his voice, and Washington can now feel the distinct feeling of his hand rubbing soothing circles over his back. It does help the cough just slightly ease up.

_You’re my Daddy, Mr. Washington._

Not wanting to even _think_ of the implications of that sentence, nor think of the resulting thoughts that can come from it—in which, some are already rudely intruding into his thoughts and only making his face feel hotter than it already did—George simply nods his head and places his platter of food aside. There was enough of that sort of banter for now—they had work to do.

“Went down the wrong pipe, s’all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awkward flirting babies i love them.
> 
> also did i find a way to slip Gilbert calling George daddy only five chapters in? i did? sue me.


	6. a fallacy in one's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from the Musical RENT, the song La Vie Boheme A.

Despite the awkwardness that plagues the morning of their work— _Seriously? ‘So you don’t have to feed me like you’re my Daddy, Mr. Washington’? What was I fucking_ thinking _?_ —Lafayette truly feels as though he and George make some amazing headway with the house. Or at least, with the front of the house. Okay, with the living room. But some progress is better than none at all, and with how Washington’s muscles move beneath the fabric of his old Marine’s shirt… the young designer isn’t sure how he gets _any_ advancement going, with how much resisting the urge to jump the man’s bones he has to do.

They finish painting and moving the furniture into the living room by the time the sun begins to set, which—considering Gilbert was the world’s biggest liar, and he did have a team of people that usually helped him with a project—is not bad timing. Gilbert is flitting about the living room and foyer area, arranging this knick-knack and that, hanging up family photos and a few of Alex’s award-winning poems when Washington finally pats the spot on the couch beside him. Both of them give a hearty chuckle when plumes of dust explode into the air.

“Sit down, Lafayette. You’ve been on your feet all day,” the man offers, scooting closer to the other arm of the couch so that the smaller of the two can have some space. Crossing his legs beneath his bottom and plopping down on the sofa beside the older man—which invites another cloud of dust into his face—Gilbert can’t help but feel a twinge of pride as his eyes float across the room. Though it had taken just the two of them a significantly longer time than it would’ve taken to do with his usual team of seven—by now, he, the moving crew and the painters would be completely finished with the downstairs—it felt… special. Rebuilding traits of Mount Vernon—that god-awful teal paint that he’d made chic with gold trimming, painting over the chipping red brick fireplace with a classy oak brown, placing all of those ancient knickknacks all over the room in a way that brought feng-shui and peace to space, god Martha had either amazing humor or zero taste—had been… almost _romantic_? Or well, it would’ve been, had he not accidentally called the man ‘Daddy’ earlier.

But it felt like moments that only the two of them could have together. Memories made that weren’t tainted by James or Alexander or Martha or even his own family. It felt as though George had seen him for the first time in… ever. George had looked past the gangly-legged, brace-faced teenage boy that had spent summers at his home learning English and seen the attractive, confident man that he’d grown into.

Or maybe, he just _wants_ to feel that way. He just hopes that by the way George keeps giving him that slightly distant, far-off look, that they’re both on the same page.

Either way, he feels like he’s earned it when he leans his head against George’s shoulder as the exhaustion overtakes him. He knows at the bottom of his heart that this is probably the furthest he’ll let Gilbert go with his little crush—he knows that Washington has to know about it by now, Gil called him fucking ‘daddy’—but he’ll take what he can get. The man’s muscles tense beneath his head at first, but eventually he relaxes. He doesn’t return any of the affection, but it’s better than feeling like it’s being rejected.

“You know, Martha would’ve been proud of what we did here, today.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult ‘cause Martha’s taste…” Gilbert trails off with uncertainty in his voice, and George shrugs his shoulder—bouncing the young man’s head. He responds by jabbing the older man’s— _Jesus fucking Christ on a cookie, that’s firm!_ —bicep. “ _Ow_! _Hey_!”

Washington chuckles, low and deep in his chest—so much so that the vibration even resonates slightly through his shoulder. Gilbert sighs—tries to stop the images of the two of them like this, watching Criminal Minds reruns on a Friday night with chilled a glass of wine…  

“She would’ve loved to be here, Gil. To see this. She would’ve thought this was somethin’ very special. We’re recreatin’ home but… made a new one, too. Made new memories. Like that paint you got on your expensive shoes,” he says, gesturing the bright splotch of ugly brown paint on his brand new white Nike’s. Gil knows he’d taken a leap when it came to wearing his favorite white pairs of sneakers to paint and move furniture—but Maria and Hercules both said they made his legs look good, and he wanted to at least draw some attention. At least if not from George, he could meet a cute guy at the McDonald’s and have a frustrated why-won’t-he-fuck-me hook-up.

He was at _least_ awarded attention from George that morning—he remembers the feeling of smugness and excitement when the man could barely take his eyes off his legs. He had even modeled for him—stretching out so he could see just how well those yoga classes did his body when he sat beside him on the floor. But he later learned that behind every door, is a fall.

Lafayette goes to make a snarky retort about the sneaky of streak of blue paint that had somehow made its way onto his cheek… when his phone _pings!_ , ruining the quiet moment that he was bound to make either cutesy or embarrassing. Frowning, he opens his phone and cringes to find two messages from the one person that could make all of this… painfully awkward.

 **from** _mon petit lion_

>i know you’re at my dads cause i just left your place and herc and maria are fucking on your couch  
>they’re too scared of you to do it when you’re around  
>i’m coming over. please do NOT be fucking my dad.  
> please do. george is very lonely. - e

 **to** _mon petit lion_

>absolutely disgusting, they are washing my cushions immediately  
>aucune promesse je ne vais pas dormir avec George Washington. peut-être que vous pouvez rejoindre, oui?  
>bonsoir eliza!

Lafayette’s phone _pings!_ again, but this time he knows that it’s just from Eliza. Standing, Lafayette stretches—his fingers stretching towards the ceiling and his back arching, revealing a few inches of caramel colored skin hidden just below his not-quite-crop-top tank top. He doesn’t bother to check and see if George is staring—the prickling goosebump feeling that begins to dot his skin is enough. Even George didn’t fall head-over-heels in love with him, he could always cherish the fact the man at least thought him attractive enough to stare at.

Smiling to himself, he lowers his arms and looks over his shoulder. “You bought wine, yes? I’m going to go pour us a glass. Your son is coming over.”

Tiredly, Washington waves his hand in dismissal—scooting down a little further in the couch so he can lean his elbow on the armrest and prop his head on the heel of his hand. Gilbert gives him a small smile as his eyes flutter closed and mutters a ‘yeah, right’ under his breath when George calls that he’s just going to close his eyes from a moment.

It feels domestic, in a sense. Lafayette swallows the lump of sadness in his throat. _It will never be domestic. Not between us, not in the way I want._ It’s unfortunate, but very true. On one hand, Lafayette is over the moon with the knowledge he collected today. He knows that George is attracted to him _physically_ —though, what desexualized weirdo _wouldn’t_ be? He also knows that if he wanted, if he _really wanted to_ , he could probably get Mr. Washington in bed right this moment. Lay him down on the sheets upstairs, kiss every single inch of shining dark skin, ride him until the cows came home…

… but that’s not all Gilbert wants from him. It wouldn’t be at all satisfying, and it could even ruin the platonic relationship the two shared together. A part of him desperately wishes he hadn’t lied to the man to get some alone time, wishes he’d had his team there to help him. Alone time with George Washington had just watered and weeded the plant of want that Lafayette had blooming his chest. It had brought his childhood crush back from hell and turned it into ‘infatuation’.

 _You idiot,_ he curses himself, swiping away at his eyes before his tears can even get the notion of leaving their burrow in his eyelids. _Ne tombez jamais amoureux d'un imbécile déjà amoureux. He’s not gonna magically get over his dead wife for you!_

As expected, when Gilbert manages to collect himself and return with a four-pack of wine coolers—he had indeed not bought wine, but Gilbert was a connoisseur. He didn’t expect his down-Southern crush to sip on 2014 Alexander Valley Cabernet Sauvignon in his free time—Alexander is startling his father awake by pounding on the door. Ah, that’s right—he’d used the spare key outside earlier to get in.

Gilbert goes through the trouble of pulling the straps of his tank top down over his shoulders to appear naked, before answering the door just a crack and throwing on his best flustered face. He knows the sweat and the days' hard work has tousled his locks, given him a sultry bedhead. _“Oui, salut? Nous n'avons rien commandé!”_

Scowling in annoyance, Alexander shoves the door the rest of the way open—and gives a relieved smile to see his father fully-clothed, resting on the couch. Washington is cracking open a wine cooler when the trio returns, and Gilbert quickly squeezes onto the sofa between George—forcing Alexander to sit alone in Washington’s recliner, as he pulls Elizabeth down on the other side of him. Immediately, Gilbert is asking to feel for the baby—which causes Eliza to laugh and place her hand over the bump barely protruding from the blue fabric of her dress.

“Phillip,” she begins, before looking up to George—who has quirked an eyebrow at his daughter-in-law. Lafayette can’t help but feel warmed by the paternal affection that rolls off of him in comforting, crashing waves. He leans into George’s figure. “or Martha doesn’t move yet. The doctor is saying soon, but I want to know they’re alright now. They’re healthy though—I’m right on track with my pregnancy, the doctor says. One of his healthiest patients! I think it’s because Alexander worries so much.”

“Whoa… Betsey, look at _this_ ,” Alex mutters, drawing everyone’s attention away from the woman. He’s obviously finally tearing his eyes away from glaring at his best friend in order to properly look around the living room, shock and awe coating his expression. His fingers outstretch to the walls, brushing lightly over the now-dried paint in wonder. When Eliza’s gaze follows his, even her mouth makes a small ‘o’ of surprise. She rises from her seat, and Gilbert leans back—head falling against George’s shoulder again. “Gil, you did this?”

“George helped,” he admits, looking up to the older man. There’s that lazy, faraway smile on his lips again when he turns back to his decorator. Lafayette makes a point of looking away to hide his blush and joining the two where they stand in front of the mantelpiece. Centered on the mantel is a photograph of the family, not long before Martha had passed away. James and George, as the tallest men in the family, lean against George’s gold Cadillac in the background—both dressed nicely in their military blues. George’s arm is tossed around Martha’s shoulder protectively, whose fingers are laced with Alex’s. And right beside Alex, wearing the beautiful gold wedding dress that Gilbert remembers staying up hours and hours to help Hercules bead, is Eliza—with the most dazzling bright smile, looking to her husband. “He picked that photo, though.”

“I just put things where he told me to, painted where he told me to. You were right, Eliza. He is a talented designer and decorator,” Washington compliments, and just now does Lafayette realize he’s standing beside him. Just as he has done for Martha in the photograph, a comforting arm comes to rest over the Frenchman’s shoulder. Gilbert can’t help but wonder where this sudden amiability and comfort had come from.

He’s also suddenly aware that George is smiling at him—a bright, warm genuine smile that he’d only ever seen the man sport around his kids or his wife. With his wide, warm maple colored eyes and that gap-toothed grin that still struck Lafayette as being oddly boyish—even despite the laugh lines around his mouth or the crinkles in the corner of his eyes.

Gilbert smiles back, goes to make a move… kiss him, say something, do _anything_! _This is your chance!_

But then Eliza gasps, and grabs hold to her husband's hand. “Alexander! Feel! The baby moved!”

George’s smile falters some before he’s slipping beside Gilbert, placing his hand over Eliza’ stomach and ‘oohing’ at all the right moments. Lafayette shakes himself from his trance, watches the family distantly, and suddenly feels as though he’s an intruder. As if he doesn’t belong in this moment anymore.

While the three of them are cooing over the baby, Gilbert quietly grabs his things and leaves.

* * *

  **Translations**

 ** _Aucune promesse je ne vais pas dormir avec George Washington._** **_Peut-être que vous pouvez rejoindre, oui?_** — No promise I will not sleep with George Washington. Maybe you can join us, yes?

 **_Bonsoir Eliza!_ ** — Good evening, Eliza!

 **_Oui, salut? Nous n'avons rien commandé._ ** — Yes, hello? We did not order anything!

  
**_Ne tombez jamais amoureux d'un imbécile déjà amoureux!_ ** — Never fall in love with a fool already in love!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> absolutely disgusting laf insinuating the man's son join you in your hoescapades smh


	7. a crush train to love town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m not trying to make this a long story, its not going to have many chapters considering its the first multi-fic i’m trying to finish so please, forgive how quickly these things are going

“This entire thing is _stupid_ , Pops,” Jimmy’s voice crackles out over the phone, barely audible above whatever noise was going on inside his barracks. George gives a small ‘harrumph’ at the assessment, cradling his cellphone between his ear as he walks along the busy streets of Manhattan.

It’s a blazing midday, and he’s just taken a break from taking inventory with his newest employee—a hire on by Eliza named John that he was already beginning to like—to go grab lunch for the both of them. Usually, he’d shop in the little café attached to the bookstore but lately, the barista had become a little too chatty—well, he’d been ever since he’d made the mistake of admitting he’d served time in the Marines. Now, George didn’t _mind_ giving some young buck advice on joining the military—he felt that the more people that were eager to serve, the better and he wasn’t going to deter them if they were serious about it. But sometimes, the last thing he wanted was to hold a thirty-minute conversation in exchange for a coffee and a turkey sandwich.

Somewhere between the store and the only little sandwich place that he knew of—Eliza had recommended the place, and George is starting to believe he trusts her judgment more than his own—he had gotten the urge to call his son. It had been a while since he had talked to James—he believes the last time they had spoken, he’d been packing up what he could from Mount Vernon. Originally, it’d been nice to hear the young man’s voice—and to hear how his first deployment was going. But of course, like Martha had taught him to be so adept at doing, James had immediately sensed something was wrong with his father and weaseled it out of him.

And now he’s being lectured. By a twenty-two-year-old. It seemed to be a common occurrence, these days.

“You’re afraid of pursuing Lafayette for what? He’s obviously cunning and smart, he’s got his own business at what? Twenty-five?”

“Yes, but he started it with his father’s money. With friends,” George explains. He doesn’t even know why he knows this tidbit about Lafayette—he can’t remember the two of them ever discussing it—nor why he’s so quick to make sure that no misinformation is being spread about the man.

“Okay… he’s hot. I’m straight but c’mon Pops, I’ve seen his Instagram. The man is _very_ attractive.”

George does nod at that one. _Very true._ He still couldn’t stop himself from occasionally envisioning the way his legs looked in those shorts, or how strong his arms were or plump his lips were. But then he regains his common sense and dutifully reminds his youngest child, “He’s twenty years younger than me.”

“So? Age is just a number.”

“Now you’re making me sound like a pedophile,” George breathes, running a hand over his face. “Gilbert is Alexander’s _friend_ , and you know your mother loved him like a son. I couldn’t do that to either of them, Jimmy. Now come on, please, be reasonable. It can and _will_ never happen. This entire conversation is—”

“If I may, I call bullshit,” James says, cutting his father off. George has to admit his pride at that one—Jimmy had always found way of being respectfully disrespectful. Raising him had been a little tougher than raising Alex in that notion. At least Alexander had been blatantly disrespectful—the ‘I’d rather ask forgiveness than permission’ mentality had plagued much of his childhood—but James was much slicker than his brother. “This isn’t about respecting Ma’s legacy, nor is this about respecting boundaries with Alexander. ‘Cause if either of those things were the case here, Pops, this conversation would’ve never begun in the first place. You would’ve never even given Lafayette another passing thought. And you would’ve denied that you think he’s hot.”

Washington chuckles under his breath at that last part, feeling a bit like a child with his hand caught in the candy jar. “What is it about then, son?”

“This about _fear_. Ma _just_ passed on. You two were together for twenty-six years. You’d been through everything with her. There was a shit-ton of heartbreak—forgive my language, sir—in those twenty-something years you were together. You’re afraid of going through any of that again. More importantly, you’re afraid of going through that again, falling in love again, and then losing them again. But tough luck, ‘cause you’re already falling.”

George must confess—his son is right. It takes hearing the words formulated, put into someone’s mouth, for him to realize it… but this had also been lurking beneath the surface. Ever since Lafayette had left his home that first night—after hours of listening to him blather on, which must’ve been no easy feat—and he’d realized that there was some underlying attraction there… this small truth had been nestled at the back of his mind. He’d buried it under the more obvious issues, though, and now there are too many layers to unpack with that. Too many things for him to work out.

Still, he knows that something is already blossoming there and that scares him more than just a little bit. Last night, there had been a… there’d been something between the two of them. Something strange. Maybe it had been the exhaustion from a full days’ work, maybe it had been how comfortable he felt whenever he was around Lafayette, but he’d mistakenly allowed something to kindle between the two of them. He couldn’t help it. Gilbert had spent the entire day with him—painting, and moving, and talking, and laughing. When they’d sat on that couch, and Gilbert had rested his head against George’s… he’d been unable to stop himself from enjoying it. Moreover, he’d been unable to stop himself from thinking about how truly _right_ it felt. To be sitting on the couch with Gilbert beside him, simply enjoying the hard work they’d put in together on something that they shared just between the two of them.

And when they were looking at that picture, and he wrapped his arm around Gilbert’s shoulder, there’d been a peace within him. A peace that—despite him telling himself that Martha wouldn’t approve—he could only describe _as_ Martha’s approval. He’d brushed it off as maybe her approval for what they’d done to his new home but maybe…

He can’t ignore that it’d hurt him deeply when, after the baby had stopped kicking and he’d looked up, Gilbert was nowhere to be found. He’d just… vanished on _their_ moment.

It felt distinctly like the first time Martha had vanished on their moment by leaving him at the altar. It felt _distinctly_ like one of the many heartbreaks he’d been put through before he finally was able to say he ‘got the girl’. And he wasn’t ready to deal with any of that again.

George had been able to bury all of that. The connection, the feeling of peace, the fact that they’d even had a ‘moment’ to begin with, the constant comparison of Martha and Gilbert in his head… he’d drunk two wine coolers and slept it off. Pushed it away to the back of his mind by morning. Unfortunately, now all those things are back and nagging at him, too.

“Pops?”

“Jimmy, I don’t want to discuss this anymore,” George says with finality, rubbing at his temple. He can see the small sign of the little sandwich shop just up ahead and decides that this is a good time to end the phone call. He had thought he’d call his son to catch up, but all it had done was made his head hurt.

Sighing in what seems to be defeat, James says, “Fine. You don’t wanna admit you’re on the Crush Train to Love Town, that’s cool.”

“Son, I am a forty-eight-year-old man, and even I know _that_ was lame.”

“Permission to call you old, sir?”

“Permission denied, Private,” George says, through a thin-layer of sternness. It earns a huff of laughter from his son. The conversation they fall into, the mixture of banter and James filling him on what South Korea is like feels better to George. Feels more comfortable.

And more importantly, it pushes any more thoughts of Gilbert out of his head for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to feature James Hamilton at least once in this story, so here is the obligatory lecture™ chapter
> 
> Also John is studying to be a Marine Biologist, but he wanted his PhD, so his schooling took about six years. He’s on his last year of school so he decided to come work at the bookshop. Idk if or when I’ll get the chance to mention it, so just a lil story fact


	8. the sandwitch coven.

If anyone asked him, Lafayette had five favorite places on Earth. His apartment with Hercules, his office at the studio, the rolling hills and lush gardens of his childhood home in France—the one his grandmother had raised him in before her passing—, Mount Vernon—for obvious reasons—, and Monticello. Though, he’d never inflate his cousin's ego by admitting that last one aloud. These places where he felt most at peace, where he felt like his mind could simply float anywhere or he could keel over right there and die happy.

And if he were, to be honest, the quiet little back booth at the coffee shop two blocks away from his studio might quickly steal Monticello’s spot away. He’d originally worked at the little place during college—a job that Adrienne had made him get after he got drunk before noon on a Tuesday out of sheer _boredom_ . He’d met John Laurens there—another rich kid with a terrible home life, another trust fund baby sent to college on the whim of his parents and not of his own. After Lafayette had graduated and started _Décorations de Victoire_ with Ségur and Adrienne—and John had quit to focus on his Ph.D. in Marine Biology—it had become a little gathering place for all their friends. Mostly to hang out, as it conveniently landed near the majority of their workplaces. Some mornings, they’d come to sober up—before returning home to girlfriends, boyfriends, parents, or whatever else judgemental factor in their lives that couldn’t bear seeing someone hungover on a Wednesday.

Though recently, it had just become his own little safe haven—a nook he kept all to himself. It was the perfect place for Lafayette to work on designs and templates outside of the studio—allowing him to get out of the cold, concrete building for a change of scenery every once in a while. When he didn’t have a day that involved him leaving the office—whether it be meeting with clients or finishing up a space—and he only had a backlog of clients to show his decorative ideas to, he’d bring his laptop, his sketchbook, and some music and come to the shop. Sometimes he’d spend hours in the back, sketching rooms and bathrooms and office spaces until his hand cramped and his coffee went cold.

The staff knew him well enough from college not to bother him, and the isolated spot at the back allowed for relative peace in what really wasn’t a busy place anyways.

But there’s another reason why the Coven—it was actually named the Sandwitch Coven, but he refused to call it that outloud—quickly becomes his favorite place. He’s filling out the final orders and deliveries for the Piers’ house, clicking through Amazon and searching for furniture that fits his vision, when a familiar voice finds its way past the low volume of _Joanne_ playing in his headphones.

“Hi, yes, can I get a BLT and a Nutella and banana sandwich?” Lafayette’s eyes instantly snap up, and his jaw nearly unhinges to find George Washington standing there.

Immediately, the sight of the man sends memories of the previous night racing through his head and he feels like sinking into his booth and melting. His face seems to be confused on whether to begin to burn red or pale and despite himself, his heart rate picks up. _This infatuation is dangerously slipping into love territory,_ he lectures himself, debating whether or not to say something to the man as his thoughts race.

_The way George had been looking at him, how close they’d been on the couch, the way he’d leaned his head on the man’s shoulder, that flicker of intimacy that had sparked between them at the mantle photo. That buzz of energy, of newly developed tension between them._

Gilbert sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to recollect himself. This entire thing is ridiculous. He’d come to the Coven to avoid thoughts of George—he’d been unable to focus the task at hand without guessing and second-guessing the dreamy-look and the shoulder thing—but George coming to the shop was just the universe telling him one thing: he couldn’t run from his problems. It was going to impossible to hide from George anyways—he had to go back to the house eventually to work some more. He needed to handle this.

Closing his laptop and placing it into its case, he cleans up the messy remnants of his Nutella and banana sandwich before approaching George where he stands in the pick-up line, waiting for his food. It’s immediately obvious that the man is deep in thought, as he doesn’t even notice when Lafayette passes him to get to the trash can. He’s zoned out—eyes focused on the tasteless Halloween-themed tile patterned floor.

“I thought I was the only person on Earth who came here for their Nutella and banana sandwiches,” Gilbert says after finally nudging him playfully when he realizes that whatever George is thinking about has captivated him. The older man jumps in surprise, first frowning and then smiling when he recognizes the face—though, he does look a bit surprised. “What’re you _doing_ here?”

“Hi, Gil. I’m fine, thank you for asking,” George responds sarcastically. When Lafayette doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic, he sighs and says, “I’m getting lunch for myself and a friend. A friend that, like you, has a disgusting taste in sandwiches.”

Immediately, Lafayette’s stomach twists. _‘A friend’? A romantic friend? Had he already met someone? Had everything that had happened last night happened in my head or had I read too deeply into it… whatever it was? Had I been played for a fool?_

“A friend, huh?”

“My new employee, John,” George says, and a bout of relief falls over Gilbert in a wave. He realizes more and more by the second how dangerous his little ‘crush’ is getting. “Eliza hired him for me. Speaking of… where’d you go last night? I was hoping we could’ve celebrated the baby kicking and the house… Alex went out and got actual wine, even though Eliza couldn’t partake.”

 _Oh._ Lafayette does his best to prevent his face from twisting with embarrassment, though the flames of shame still lick at his heels. He hadn't been cut out of ‘their moment’, George had fully expected him to be there for that, too. He had jumped the gun when the man had nudged him aside and despite how it had made him felt, it’s made distinctively obvious that it hadn’t had been George’s intention.

It's a small confirmation, but it still implies that the man wants him to be there for the important moments. And whether it be romantic or not, Lafayette had forgotten in all of this mess that George—and, of course, Alex—was still his family.

“Susan was sick,” he lies, before realizing George doesn't know who Susan is. He can't admit his own childishness, not now. He’s already embarrassed enough at how he’d acted, there’s no way he’ll confess the true reason of why he’d felt the need to leave to swiftly.  “My roommate's girlfriend's daughter, Susan. She was sick and her Mom asked me to bring home medicine.”

George gives him a puzzled look, and it almost feels as if he's gauging the truth behind the statement. If he is, or even if he already sees through it, he lets it go and says, “Well, sorry to hear that. Hope she feels better. Do you have any extra time? I'd love for you to come to see the bookstore. I know you're a busy man, but—”

“I'd love to,” Lafayette finds himself saying, faster than what he's comfortable with. At this point, the cashier returns with George’s order and he takes the small brown bag from the young lady. “Your Yelp reviews are stunning, you know? Four stars. Would be five, but apparently your barista talks too much.”

Pushing open the door to the shop and stepping back out onto the streets of Manhattan, the two begin their walk to _A Revolutionary Read_. Lafayette nearly cringes when he realizes he’s just revealed he stalked his crush’s business on Yelp—after both Facebook and Twitter hadn’t shown much, other than what he already knew—but George doesn’t seem fazed. Probably because…  “My what?”

“Your Yelp—I'm sorry, do you not know what Yelp is?” Lafayette asks incredulously.

“No, forgive me,” George looks to him expectantly, eyebrow raised. Unsure of how to explain the concept of Yelp to him, Lafayette frowns.

“It's well… it’s like a website where people rate establishments.”

“Like a website full of critics? I didn’t even know bookstores _had_ critics.”

“George, you are adorably out of the know.” Gilbert’s eyes flit briefly to the other man’s face, curious if he’ll get away with the comment. It’s passive flirting, nothing that Lafayette is used to using—usually he was much more forward, and blatant. However, it’s baby steps.

If George notices, he doesn’t give it away. “Yes, I'm aware. John taught me what a 'meme’ was just this morning.”

Seeing an opportunity, Gilbert tries again. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so keen on pushing this with George—it could be because he realizes that a boundary that had been there before between them is gone, and the invitation to tease is just too good to pass up. Or maybe he just enjoys seeing the older man blush. “ _Aww_ , my little Georgie.”

If it’s the latter, he gets his wish. George’s cheeks do indeed brighten, and he dips his head just slightly. The comment seems to have some effect on the man at least, which is all Gilbert can ask for.

“Hush. I'm an old man, Gilbert, you know this.” To anyone else, it'd sound like a warning. _I'm an old man, too old for you._ But Lafayette had never listened well to warnings.

“You know, you've always said that wrong. My name,” he hums. He doesn’t know why he chooses now to bring it up. It isn’t bothering him—in fact, he thinks the mispronunciation is possibly the most adorable thing that George does. If anyone else did it, he’d cringe and tell them to call him ‘Lafayette’ instead, but he always let it slide with George.

But for some reason, after over a decade of George saying his name wrong, he mentions it.

“And how do you say it?”

“ _Gilbert_.”

George stops in his tracks for the briefest moments, but he must hurry and begin walking again as the busy Manhattan streets won’t allow for too much stopping in the middle of a sidewalk. But he seems shocked, and it takes a few moments but eventually, he says, “Why have you never corrected me?”

Lafayette laughs at his reaction. “I thought it was cute. The way you said it. I still do. I think you're the only one that gets away with it. It's why everyone calls me Lafayette now. Much harder to butcher.”

“Wait, you thought I was cute? You _think_ I’m cute?” George asks, his brows furrowing just slightly. Gilbert blushes. It had been done intentionally previously, but he just realizes now that he’d called his actual infatuation cute. _Tant pis._

“I do. Very much.”

“Gilbert, I’m… I think… I—I think you’re—”

Lafayette's heart swells with anticipation just at the same time his phone buzzes. Cursing the powers that be, he reluctantly removes the phone from his back pocket and clicks it open to read previews of the messages.

 **from** l'amour de ma vie   
> where are you???   
> we have that Piers appointment in ten!  
> goddamnit! get here, now!

“Shit… I forgot about that. I've got to go,” he groans. His eyes travel longingly over to George, eager to hear what he’d been about to say—but the moment is gone. George has reserved himself again, crawled back into his shell.

“Oh, alright. Another time, then?” Lafayette sighs. _I’d been so close._

“Of course! I'll see you tomorrow, too. We can work on that kitchen,” he says, backing away into the busy streets. George seems to agree with that, before frowning and turning back.

“I've already done the kitchen!”

Lafayette rolls his eyes as he laughs. “I'll see you tomorrow, George!”

* * *

**Translations**

**_Tant pis._ ** \- Oh well.

 _ **l'amour** **de ma vie** _ \- love of my life


	9. the kitchen.

The efforts in the kitchen are initially started with the help of both Alexander and Eliza, both of whom take off from their respective jobs—though Alexander did mention something about ‘babysitting’, to which Lafayette nervously laughed off and punched him in the shoulder for—to ‘lighten the load’. Whatever the _actual_ reason may be, George initially welcomes the extra assistance and they make really good headway with the house with the extra hands.

Gilbert had mentioned that since Eliza and Alexander were there, they could work on the upstairs and finish up the kitchen—with it being the smallest room in the house—alone. Though not even an entire hour into their work, George notices that Lafayette, Alexander, and Eliza all exchanging whispered conversations and flighty glances.

He’s out of the loop, maybe, but not _stupid._  He knows whatever they’re talking about, it involves him in some way. He thinks he can guess why, too—though when it came to Alex, he had learned to stop trying to assume what was going on in his head. Alex could be upset about the fact that Lafayette called him ‘cute’ or he could be upset about the fact that Lafayette called him ‘cute’ and George didn’t tell him about it.

Whatever is the matter though, the behavior gets old really quick. George can’t count on both hands and feet how many times he gets tired of walking into a room where they’re working and all of sudden, everything goes dead quiet. Which, when Eliza checks her watch and reminds that she’d promised Angelica that she’d pick up her son from karate class, he’s more than quick to usher his two children out the door.

“Thank you for helping, _chérie_ ,” Lafayette calls to Eliza through laughter, as the young couple is practically shoved from the home. “I’ll see you both Saturday at dinner!”

When the door slams shut behind them and George turns back around, Lafayette has both of his hands on his hips and is smiling wistfully. “Someone was in a hurry to get me alone.”

George huffs out a breath of annoyance, nudging past him towards the kitchen. He’ll ignore the innuendo for now, mostly because he’s not entirely wrong. They’d just finished up the guest bedroom when Eliza and Alex left, so all that leaves is the kitchen and the bathrooms. It’s amazing how small his new home is compared to the grand estate that Mount Vernon is, and it baffles him that the decorating process is moving so quickly.

“George… is there something wrong?” Lafayette asks, warmth in his voice. He approaches behind the older man as he’s pulling kitchen appliances from boxes—appliances that he had told Alexander that he didn’t need, but that were bought for him anyways—and rests his arms on his shoulders. “Are you mad because we were talking about you?”

“You ask the world’s stupidest questions, Gil, you know that?” George asks with a sigh, turning around. The presence of another person behind him, touching him in such a comforting way… it almost makes him nervous. It’s too reminiscent of Martha. “I’m not mad. _Annoyed_.”

“If it makes you feel better, I had nothing but good things to say,” Gilbert is getting closer now, the only thing keeping space between the two of them is the toaster oven still in its box. George knows that the younger man is getting too comfortable now, the exchange yesterday obviously emboldening him. He wants to put a stop to it immediately, but he can’t bring himself to. Gil smells really good—sweet, like candy—and there’s a look in his eyes that can and will make George commit every known sin to man. “Would you like to hear about them?”

“Gil, this needs to stop,” George breathes, pushing the toaster oven into the other man’s hands. Shame burns his face. _Martha just died. Gilbert is nothing but a baby. What are you doing?_ “It’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” he says, though he acquiesces—moving over to plug the oven into the socket by the counter. After doing that, Gilbert goes to open the fridge—probably to take things out so they can move it—but stops dead in his tracks. He seems to be baffled at the materials stored there, so much so that it takes several minutes for him to speak. “But you must be. Is this seriously all you have in your refrigerator?”

“I just went grocery shopping, so what are you talking about?” George asks, setting down a still-boxed coffee maker—”I don’t even drink coffee like that, Alexander,” had apparently not been a sufficient enough declination—and joining the young man in front of the fridge. There are mostly microwavable foods in his freezer—warm-up pizzas, TV dinner, hot pockets and the like. He had the palette of a twelve-year-old—but only because he’d never bothered to learn how to cook. A fatal flaw of his, assuming that Martha and Alex would be around forever. They hadn’t been, and he’d subsisted off of microwave and oven foods for nearly one and a half years. “What’s wrong with it?”

“This isn’t groceries, George!” Lafayette explains, seemingly offended that the man would even insinuate. “This is… this is twenty-year-old groceries. Things men _my_ age should survive off of. You don’t know how to cook, _mon cher_?”

“I… I never learned. Never bothered,” he admits with a shrug. Gilbert seems taken aback, and he dramatically grasps at his chest to show it. Laughing, he continues with, “Oh, and you’re so much better?”

“I live with a child, George. I have to know how to cook, especially when Maria and Hercules leave her with me,” he shrugs, closing the fridge and grabbing his keys from his pocket. George raises an eyebrow at the action, but that confusion turns into surprise when Lafayette grabs his hand. “C’mon, we’re going grocery shopping. _Real_ grocery shopping. How long has it been since you’ve had food not from a restaurant or a freezer?”

“It’s… been awhile. Eliza used to invite me over for meals when they still lived in Virginia, but when they moved, obviously I can’t. And since I’ve been here she hasn’t had the opportunity to invite me over. Except for Saturday.”

“That’s awful. That’s not healthy, George,” Lafayette lectures, genuine disappointment in his voice. It almost makes George hang his head in shame.

“You sure know how to make a man feel bad.”

“It’s a talent.”

“Hmm, where’d you pick _that_ talent up?”

“Alex.”

“Of course.”

The two of them take George’s Cadillac—which Gil comments is such a ‘George Washington’ car, whatever _that_ means—to the local grocery store, which isn’t too far off. The entire time Gilbert and George alternate between their respective music tastes, dancing along to the music—though Gil spends most of his time dancing suggestively and laughing at George’s expressions to what he calls ‘trap’ music. For a moment, George is able to forget the fact that Gilbert is nearly half his age, or that he could be betraying Martha with this. It feels strangely warm and domestic, and sweet.

He has to admit, Gilbert has a gorgeous laugh.

When they arrive at the grocery store, Gil climbs into one of the baskets, sitting with his knees brought up to his chest. George stares at him. “What’re you doing?”

“Grocery shopping, what are _you_ doing?” he asks sweetly, staring up at the older man.

“You’re almost twenty-five.”

“Push the damn cart, George,” George sighs, but he does as told—grabbing the handlebars and pushing the two of them into the store. It’s around the time that school lets out, so plenty students are in the store getting snacks and drinks. Mothers push their toddlers around in baskets, Fathers stare confusedly at different boxes of cereal. It’s… busy, to say the least. “I’m not getting out of the cart.”

Mind-reader. “People will be _staring_.”

“And what’ll they see? A cute gay couple grocery shopping? I don’t mind.”

“We’re not a—”

“Hush! Go down the vegetable aisle.”

“You’re _bossy_ , you know that? Probably something else you picked up from my son,” he huffs. Despite the fact that Gilbert is a full-grown adult, he’s not actually that heavy. Well, either that or the old workout equipment he’d found and hidden in his bedroom was paying off nicely. “What are we making?”

“What do you want? Preferably, a meatless dish, thanks,” Gilbert says, eyes scanning the many shelves and rows of assorted vegetables. “I don’t know anything from home, so don’t say some shit like _escargot_ or _coq au vin_.”

“I wasn’t going to,” George chuckles. He was. “Enchiladas?”

“Cheese enchiladas?” Gil asks, already reaching to grab the onions off of the shelf.

“Sounds great to me.”


	10. the kiss

Lafayette doesn’t know why he does it. No, scratch that—he’s never been a good liar. He knows _exactly_ why he does it. It’s because, like a horny seventeen-year-old at prom, he finds that he can’t control his impulses. In simpler terms, he can’t help it. Later, he will tell himself this is a cop-out.

But really, who could blame him? Anyone in his shoes would’ve done the same thing.

The two of them are washing up the dishes after dinner—the enchiladas were actually _delicious_ , and considering its the first time he makes them, that’s something he prides himself on—and chatting, simply enjoying the company of the other person. Though, when it came to it, Gilbert _always_ found himself enjoying the company of George—even when he was covered in paint marks and sore from moving furniture.

George has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his arms deep in suds—and Lafayette is thinking how handsome he looks that way—when he turns and suddenly splashes the younger man in the face with the soapy dishwater. It’s unexpected— _George Washington_ , starting a water fight? No one would ever believe him, if he could choke down the embarrassment long enough to tell the tale—, and it sends a smattering of lavender scented bubbles across Lafayette’s face. The look of surprise that befalls his expression must be hilarious because then the older man is laughing these rich, deep belly laughs. And there are the laugh lines around his mouth and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes and the ever-lingering sadness that had loomed over the man like a shadow had receded, if only for a moment. His head tosses back, exposing the smooth caramel flesh of his throat, and when he stops laughing there’s a bright smile on his face. He’s the most beautiful man on Earth.

Lafayette kisses him. Which, in and of itself, would be a problem. But that’s not what leaves him reeling, what has him picking up his bag and storming out of the house—tears clouding his vision, anger and shame finding their comfortable nest in his chest.

The problem is—George kisses back. He kisses back fiercely, wet hands cupping Lafayette’s face and bringing him closer. The dish that Lafayette had been rinsing clatters loudly to the floor as he brings his own hands to George’s hips, settling them over the space where his shirt had begun to ride up a little. His eyes flutter closed and their mouths move against each other so perfectly Gilbert thinks they were made for each other. He can’t help but notice how faintly George tastes of enchiladas and salsa.

 _He kisses back,_ and then there are fumbling hands and Lafayette finds himself on the counter—breathing hard as George’s mouth trails patterns along the column of his neck, as George makes room for himself in the space between his legs. There are no thoughts in his brain, though try as he might to form coherent ones. Then George’s lips find his again, and this time their kiss is hungry and needy—desperate for each other, even. All Gilbert can think about _then_ is how much he needs this man in front of him, how much he wants this and then—

“Stop! Stop! I can’t do this.” George is breathing equally as hard when he pulls away from the kiss, and there’s a fearful look in his eyes that sends Lafayette’s beating heart plummeting to his stomach. “This is wrong!”

Lafayette opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. Tries to form a thought past _‘God, I love you’_. He can’t bring himself to. He can’t think, and this time it’s not for any good reason. The tugging in his yoga pants beckons for his attention, and then the shame settles. The _embarrassment_. _Had I almost let my… crush, whatever the fuck George is, fuck me on his kitchen counter?_ The rejection stings more than he would like to admit, and coupled with how cheap he feels… the desire crumbles into a desire to get out. Suddenly the kitchen is too small, and the house is too empty, and the space between them not wide enough—when seconds ago, he could’ve melted into George and died content.

“I should go,” he croaks out, and his voice sounds far more broken than he would like. He _wants_ to be strong, and unbothered by the fact that this man that he loves so much _doesn’t want him_. He wants to be the Lafayette that would’ve scoffed should anyone dare make the mistake of turning him down, would’ve reveled in knowing they’d regret it later. But this is _different_ , and all of his strength falls short in the face of heartbreak. He jumps from the counter when the stinging in his nose warns him that he’s about to cry, leaving George floundering uselessly in the kitchen—awkwardly calling out his name but making no effort to stop him from leaving. His eyes are watery when he shoves his work binder and sweater in his satchel, and he’s already crying by the time he gets to the front door.

On the drive home, when he manages to stop sobbing long enough not to swerve into oncoming traffic, he can hear his phone buzzing. He can also hear little Susan’s nagging voice—" _Eyes on the road, Uncle Taffy!”_ —when he picks up the phone to glance at the messages.

 **from** _mon cher_  
> I am so sorry.  
> I didn’t mean that you are wrong.  
> I meant…  
> I don’t know what I meant.  
> See you Friday?

 

 **from** _mon petit lion_  
> Dad just texted me.  
> What does he mean by ‘he fucked up’?  
> What am I missing here?

 Lafayette snorts so hard the pain in his nose returns, and then the shame melts into rage. Rage that has him slamming his fists against the steering wheel, and angry tears burn through the trail his saddened ones had blazed. How _dare_ he have the nerve, the _unmitigated_ gall… ‘see you Friday’? After what had just happened? _On se voit en enfer._ Then to text _Alexander_ of all people? In hopes that… what? Alexander could perhaps gauge the situation with him, that Alexander could fix his massive fuck-up? _How cowardly._

Gilbert doesn’t bother wasting time, wondering if he’s just mad at himself and taking it out on George. He won’t let his mind burn down that path—it’s easier to be angry than sad, anyways.

When he gets home—after sitting in the parking lot for twenty minutes, trying to avoid looking like a depressed trainwreck—, no one is there except for Maria’s babysitter and Susan, who immediately jumps up and hugs his legs at the sight of him. Of all the things to make him feel better in this moment, he’s surprised that it’d be the energetic three-year-old that does it—but when he lifts her into his arms, and she hugs him around his neck in a way that feels like being choked, its the greatest comfort in the world.

“Why are you crying, Uncle Taffy?” she asks, head tilted and wavy locks falling into her face as she does. He smiles at her, pushing her hair behind her shoulder. Leave it to Susan to see through the facade he’d just tried to put on. He can’t say why, but a part of him is relieved that someone notices—that someone sees that he’s not alright, even if that person is just a toddler. He hadn’t been looking forward to forcing it into a conversation with Maria or Hercules, anyways.

“A boy made me cry,” he admits to her, trying to simplify it so that a three-year-old can understand. Susan wrinkles her nose in distaste, rests her head on his shoulder and yawns as he carries her into the living room. The babysitter looks exasperated by how many times they’ve probably watched ‘Frozen’ in one night—judging by all of the ‘Frozen’ merchandise is covering the room, and how the movie still plays through the song ‘For The First Time In Forever’ which is Susan’s favorite song—and is more than happy to accept her pay and bolt.

“A boy used to make my Mommy cry. Boys are dumb,” Susan says when they’re alone, handing him her Olaf stuffed animal and burrowing into her blankets. “You can borrow Olaf to make you feel better.”

His back pocket vibrates again—most likely another text from George. He ignores it, this time, and gives Olaf a squeeze.

“Yeah. They are, aren’t they?”

* * *

 

**Translations**

  ** _On se voit en enfer._ ** — See you in hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once watched frozen for literally twenty-four hours straight. Hahahahahahkillmepleasehahahahahahaha
> 
> also, now that i’ve finished writing ycpydwt, i’ve started working on a new story. Its an arranged marriage (washette, duh) au. just in case anyone is interested in what i may have going on after this.


	11. the call

Lafayette doesn’t come back to finish decorating Friday. Instead, he sends a crew of about eight people, one of them being a finely dressed young lady around Lafayette’s age. Her dreadlocks are pulled up into a high bun, and her green eyes are sharp and pierce through him—and not in the good way that Gilbert’s do. The young lady does not wear gym shorts and a tank top nor does she wear white sneakers. She does not once stick her hand in a pan of paint and begin to paint the walls of his kitchen, nor does she personally arrange any of the objects the team brings in. She laughs when he asks her why Lafayette had done all those things and she hadn’t. She tells him to give her the spare key and go back to work—he’ll just be in the way if he stays at home. 

She says her name is Adrienne de Noailles, and gives her his card to take with him—in case he has any questions. It has her number, her email address and… the address of their studio on it.

**ADRIENNE DE NOAILLES-DE LAFAYETTE  
** **INTERIOR DECORATOR & DESIGNER  
** **8th AVE. NORTH OF 110th St.  
** **BY CALL OR REFERENCE ONLY! NO WALK-INS!  
** **CALL FOR DETAILS @ (212) 736-3527  
** **OR EMAIL US @ anoadesigns@gmail.com**

George contemplates going to the studio to check up on him, but decides against it—he probably wouldn’t be there anyways. Instead…

 ** _to_** __gil  
> Hello.  
> You didn’t come decorate today.  
> I thought you said you didn’t work with a team.

After nearly an hour of no response, he adds:

**to** _ gil  
_ > I’m really sorry. I didn’t expect last night to go as it did.

He gets one of the default responses, and his heart shatters.

**_from_ ** _ gil  
_ > Sorry, I’m in a meeting right now!

When George asks, Adrienne frowns and says there is no meeting.

George knows that he shouldn’t feel so dejected—after all, it was  _ his  _ fault that Lafayette had stopped talking to him in the first place. He knows he’d made a mistake yesterday night and that he’d crossed a boundary in their relationship that he couldn’t turn away from. Even worse, he can’t bring himself to really call it a ‘mistake’. He finds himself, as he checks out books in what feels like a trance, thinking more about how much he hadn’t wanted to break the kiss and the thought—for once—excites more than terrifies him. 

No, what  _ truly  _ terrifies him isn’t that he’d entertained what happened after that first kiss—that he’d allowed his carnal desires and lust get the best of him. It’s that he had almost been unable to get himself to  _ stop _ . And he didn’t want to stop because he  _ hadn’t  _ enjoyed kissing Lafayette—it was the reality that he enjoyed kissing him  _ too  _ much that had the alarm bells in his head screaming louder than the tightness in his boxers. It’s that his fear that if he allowed himself one kiss, he wouldn’t be able to stop there—hell, he almost hadn’t been  _ able  _ to. Kisses would turn into something more, and George didn’t think he live with being just Gilbert’s ‘fuck buddy’.

He didn’t want their relationship—should they even  _ have  _ one after this—to be one based solely around sex. He’d resolved himself that if he was going to do this—and he is, because he’s too far gone to turn around now—if he was really going to throw all caution to the wind like this, he needed to do it the  _ right  _ way.

If only he had said  _ that _ , instead of blurting out ‘This is wrong!’. 

On Saturday, Gilbert doesn't show up to the dinner like he’d promised. Alex insists that he’d texted him to remind him, but that the messages had gone unanswered. And George ignores the pitying look on his sons face when he cuts in with, “He’s probably just running late. Let’s wait a little longer.” 

But when eight o’clock comes and Lafayette is still a no-show, Eliza softly tells him that the food is getting cold—tries to cheer him up by suggesting that a client had kept him late. For the second time i only a week, he experiences heartbreak—funny how Gilbert had made him feel all of these emotions, all of the good ones, all of the bad ones, in  _ under seven days _ . It baffles him, the effect that boy has on him.

At dinner, the conversation is—thankfully—mostly overrun by Alexander, Eliza and her sisters. George can barely focus on the food sitting in front of him, so he’s glad that none of them attempt to involve him. Even Alexander doesn’t bring him into it—somehow managing to redirect the conversation when it falls on his move from Virginia. Mr. Schuyler is the only one that doesn’t get the hint and tries to start a conversation about football, but he tunes out halfway through.

Lafayette occupies his mind all night, and he finds himself wondering if their relationship could ever bounce back.

He gets his answer early Sunday morning, when Gilbert calls George. The loud ringtone that Gilbert had put in his phone for him startles him awake, from where he’d somehow managed to fall asleep. When he squints at the screen, he sees that it’s nearly three in the morning. This concerns him, but nothing like the worry that plagues him when he hears that Gilbert is crying at the end of the line.

It’s actually more like sobbing, intermingled with shouting and cursing at someone. This wakes up the man—who was groggily trying to figure out why Lafayette had called him  _ crying _ —immediately, suddenly alert and running through all the worst case scenarios. Was someone hurting Lafayette? Had he gotten into a fight? What was going  _ on _ ?

He’s already tossed off the covers and is slipping into his house shoes before Lafayette even manages to say anything, which just goes to show just how concerned he is for the other man.

“Get of— _ enfoiré! Allez-vous en! J'ai dit non!”  _ he snaps, so loud that the reception crackles a little bit. George winces, and waits—listening. Someone says something to the young decorator, their voice scarily clear compared to the slurring of Gilbert’s. Worry gnaws at George’s stomach—any situation where someone was sober and someone else was very, very drunk spelled trouble. In response to whatever that person says, Lafayette says, “Fuck you! George, George… can you  _ please  _ come pick me up? I’m at this shady fucking divebar with my ex—Fuck  _ off _ , Charles, I’m not your little fucking whore! Please… George, come get me… I… I don’t wanna be here.”

George doesn’t say ‘I’m already out the door’. Nor does he comment on the spike of jealousy that boils his veins when he hears the word ‘ex’. And he sure as hell doesn’t let his tongue get the best of him, doesn’t ask what the  _ fuck  _ Lafayette is doing with his  _ ex _ . He doesn’t say anything except a quick, “I’ll be there in ten. Stay put.” 

He doesn’t why he’s in such a hurry—Gilbert had called him, after nearly two days of silence, surely they can wait for him to take his time—but he practically trips over himself getting out the door. Maybe it’s because it’s  _ Gil _ , and he feels a strong need to protect him—a need that is more romantic than paternal, for once. Maybe it’s because he’s concerned that Gilbert is only drunk because of him, that he’s in the situation and it’s George’s fault. Or maybe because he can admit that he loves him, and he just wants to see him… to see that he’s okay. That’s all he cares about, at this point. Gilbert being okay.

The address that Gilbert sends is quite a ways away, and it takes him to a shady part of town, but George doesn’t really care. He’d drive a million miles at this point, if it meant making sure that Gil didn’t wind up hurt. And even though he’s drunk, and he’s crying, Washington is relieved to just hear his voice.

When he pulls up outside the bar and gets out, Gilbert is already waiting outside. The music coming from the bar is muffling his words, even despite them being outside and him screaming at some man at the top of his lungs. Still, George doesn’t near to hear what he’s saying to know that something is wrong. Lafayette visibly drunk, swaying on his feet despite his best attempts to appear more sober than he is. Tears stream down his face, running his mascara and giving him a helpless look that breaks George’s heart more than any no-show or days of silence can ever do. Luckily, when Gilbert sees George he stops shouting and nearly trips over his shoes to get to him, throwing himself in his arms. It feels good to hug him, and George can’t resist squeezing him back tightly—in an effort to both comfort and reassure him. He smells strongly of liquor and pot, and it’s even stronger on his breath. Behind him, a man that looks to be around Gil’s age stands with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette—looking extremely pissed off.

George straightens up to his full height and glares at him. Eventually, after a few minutes of staring each other down, the man curses and storms off—heading back inside the bar.

“George, can you take me home?” Gilbert asks, looking up at him with a tear-streaked face as the door to the bar slams shut. His only response to the question is to go over and open the passenger door for him. He helps get Gil in the car, and puts his seatbelt on. It feels as though he can’t in the car fast enough—the entire situation is unsettling, and George doesn’t think the bar is a good place to linger anyways. He makes a mental note to take Lafayette to a decent bar—when he was sober, and all of this was behind them. With something other than cheap liquor and a strict ‘no drugs’ policy.

“What was that about?” he asks, when the music is nothing but a faint memory in his ears and the streets begin to look more familiar. Lafayette doesn’t answer at first, still sniffling. But then, despite not knowing whether or not they’re still on good terms, George reaches over and takes the young man’s hand into his. “It’s alright. Whatever happened, I’m not going to judge you.”

He feels as though he sounds more fatherly than affectionate, but it works.

“He wanted me to fuck his friends.  _ All  _ of them,” Gil murmurs, head lolling to the side to look at him. Even with the runny mascara and alcohol breath, he’s beautiful. George wants to say so, but figures it’s not the time. He focuses his gaze back on the road just as a red light turns green. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t call Maria or Hercules or Alex. I just… I needed someone who wouldn’t give me shit.”

“Don’t apologize. I’d do anything for you,” George says, before he has the time to properly think the words through. They’re true, but obviously not the right thing to say right now. And it shows, in the way Gilbert’s nose scrunches up as though he’s smelled something awful and he turns his head away to watch the streets pass.

“Except fuck me. ‘Cause it’s wrong, apparently.” George huffs out a bit of air—both out of exasperation and because he knows that he has a lot of explaining to do. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation regardless, but with Gilbert drunk and high, it certainly was going to be harder than anticipated.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he admits slowly, gritting out the words from between the teeth.  _ How could someone you love so much, frustrate you so much?  _ Martha had been frustrating too, in their early years. He wonders if that’s a sign that the love is real.

“Then what did you mean? That you’re ashamed? That you think we’re disgusting? That you would rather mope over your dead wife than be happy with me?” Lafayette sounds like he’s about to start crying again, but George is too caught up in his words to care much right now. It was one thing to bring up Martha in the context of their relationship in the privacy of his own thoughts, when he wasn’t so sad that thinking of her would bring him down. It was another thing for Gilbert to use it as ammunition against him. 

It’s a low blow. It hurts, but maybe that’s what he’s trying to do.

“Don’t bring her into this.” George’s jaw sets, and the grip on his steering wheel turns deadly. “Martha has nothing to do with this.”

“She would’ve wanted you to be happy,” Gilbert practically whines, and George is afraid of where this conversation is going. More than that, he’s afraid that Gil will be too drunk to remember it, and they’ll have to have it again. So he cuts it short.

“We’ll discuss this in the morning. When you’re sober.”

* * *

 

**Translations**

**_Enfoiré! Allez-vous en! J'ai dit non!_** — Bastard! Go away! I said no!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m not good at NY addresses please correct me if you can


	12. the talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no not that kind of talk

The first thing Lafayette recognizes when he wakes up is that the headache that feels like it may split his head open. The second is the hurricane that is his stomach, nausea and dizziness hitting him even though he's laying down. He groans when he opens his eyes and the light blinds him for a moment, but then it just makes his head pound more and he turns away from the window—the sheets tangling in his legs and pulling as he does.

He doesn't even realize that someone is in the bed with him until he's turned, and is thrown off guard when he's met with the groggy dark eyes of George Washington—looking handsome washed in the morning light, but out of place laying beside him. George smiles at him, and rubs the sleep from his eyes.

“G'morning.”

Lafayette wants to say something about Thursday, but the feeling of bile rising in his throat sends him flying from the bed instead. Faster than he ever thought he could move, his head is stuck in the toilet of the adjoining master bathroom as yesterday's dinner of vodka tonics and fruity cocktails burn through his throat on reappearance. For some reason, he is reminded of the faint joke that Alexander used to make: “It never tastes half as good coming back up.”

The pounding in his head becomes a pounding in his ears as he retches, and his throat feels raw. But there's a warm feeling of someone lifting his hair from the back of his neck, and rubbing comforting circles on the back of his shirt and its strangely comforting.

He's grateful that when his stomach is emptied, he turns and George is holding out a cool washcloth with a sympathetic look on his face.

“Thank you,” he rasps, throat feeling scratchy and mouth feeling grimy. George nods wordlessly, reaches over to turn on the shower. There are so many questions, so many things Lafayette wants to ask or say to this man. Like why the hell they'd been in bed together, or just many embarrassing things he'd done last night. This man, who for no discernible reason, was helping him after he'd been ignoring him for nearly two days. Instead he dumbly states, “I don't have any clothes here.”

George shrugs. “You can borrow one of my t-shirts while I wash your clothes.”

“Did I sleep with you?” Lafayette blurts, before he loses the resolve to ask. In hindsight, its probably a stupid question—if George didn’t want to sleep with him Thursday, what made him being drunk and high and incoherent any more attractive on a Sunday? But his brain is still clouded by the night before and he can’t think straight—hell, he woke up in George’s _bed_. _Of course_ he couldn’t think straight.

Moreover, he honestly doesn't even know if he wants an answer. But the words tumble out of his mouth, and it briefly feels as though he can't seem to control anything leaving his mouth this morning. “I don't remember anything after the car…  you put me in the car and I blacked out.”

George raises both of his eyebrows, scratches at the stubble growing on his cheeks—almost as if he's debating telling him the truth. Gilbert can already feel himself queasy with embarrassment—or maybe that's the hangover again. “You fell asleep in the car, and woke up halfway home. We bought Taco Bell, and then when I tried to put you to bed in the guest room, you begged me to hold you. So I did.”

Lafayette sighs. That sounded painfully like him. Adrienne had always characterized him as a ‘clingy’ drunk. She said it was cute at first, but after awhile, having a grown man wanting to hang off of you every twenty seconds grew old. His cheeks burn at the thought of George being embarrassed of him, and then burn more at the knowledge that he probably already _is_. “Sorry. About last night. About _everything_.”

George, again, says nothing—or rather, he says nothing relating to their conversation. There's a look in his eyes, though, the tells Lafayette he's sorry too. “There are toothbrushes under the sink, and I'll lay out some clothes for you. Holler if you need anything.”

Lafayette nods, and the bathroom door clicks softly as it closes behind him. He takes advantage of the hot water immediately, peeling his clothes that reek of alcohol and marijuana and sleaze from his body as he does. There are flashes from last night playing in his brain as the water cascades over him, and no matter how hard he tries, he car can't push them from his mind. Charles and his creepy yellow-toothed friend, looming over him in that dark corner of the bar. The panic he'd felt, how panic quickly turned into fear when they kept trying to get him to leave with them. How all he'd wanted in that moment was to be back _here_ , with _George_.

Then the relief he felt when George picked up the phone. How the relief turned into insurmountable love and affection when George had hugged him. And how happy that man made him, even when his creepy ex-boyfriend had ruined his night.

By the time he steps out of the shower and pulls the shirt over his head—a shirt that smells of expensive cologne and vanilla candles—, he knows what he needs to do. Or at the very least, _say_. Besides, if the worst came to worst, at least they could clear up any confusion. They could resolve the tension between them, and have an amicable friendship. Gilbert has it set in his mind, before he pulls on the baggy boxers that hang off his hips, that he wants George in his life. No matter what.

He finds George sitting in the kitchen, hunched over a mug of coffee and obviously deep in thought. The man looks up when he enters, offers another smile—this one tentative. Lafayette gives him a smile back.

“Coffee is in the pot. If you want breakfast, we can go to the Waffle House or something.”

Lafayette’s stomach gives an unpromising lurch at the thought of any food—especially the greasy food from the Waffle House—, though the coffee smells good enough that he decides to make a cup. “No, thanks. I just want to stay here.”

George nods, takes a sip of his coffee. It must be bitter, because he winces a bit—not bitter enough, though, because he takes a few more cautious sips. Gilbert wrinkles his nose at the idea of drinking his coffee black and nearly dumps half the sugar canister into his. He's reaching for the creamer when George's hand takes his, their fingers lacing together. It startles Gil, and he finds George’s eyes with shock evidently settling on his face.

“I don’t know how to say any of this, but I’m going to try. I’m going to try because our relationship matters to me and I won’t jeopardize that over a misunderstanding. The other night—”

“George.”

“Hm?”

“Let me a drink some coffee, first.” This gets him to chuckle and he nods, releasing Lafayette's hand. Gilbert finishes making his coffee with trembling, nervous fingers. He won't let his face betray it, but he's terrified of this conversation. Terrified of all the things that George might say, terrified of getting his heartbroken. So terrified, in fact, that his voice trembles when he says, “Okay.”

George takes a deep breath, obviously steeling his own resolve. Gilbert prepares himself for rejection.

“Look. I _like_ you, Gilbert,” he says, obviously feeling his way blindly through this conversation. George's eyes are focused on his hands, folded neatly on the dining room table. This is a good thing, because Lafayette doesn't want him to see just how startled he is by the confession. “I just… I don't know how to deal with that knowledge.”

“I'm sorry I gave you the impression that I think we're… dirty, or wrong for wanting to be with each other—though, this age difference and our history is a… less than ideal foundation for a relationship. I mean, I'm assuming that all that flirting was done out of genuine interest and not… well… this all feels juvenile. What I'm trying to say is… I'd like it very much if we could… uh…”

George is gesturing awkwardly with his hands between the two of them, so Gilbert helps him out. “You want to be with me?”

George nods, and seems to blush a little now that its in words.

Lafayette exhales sharply, takes another gulp of his coffee, and thinks. He had pictured this conversation going _much_ differently, and now that it hadn’t, he finds himself at a loss for words. He’d imagined George grimacing and shrinking back into his chair as he kindly attempted to reject Lafayette, the awkward ride back to his apartment and the fake cheeriness he’d have to put on as they finished the house—as if he wasn’t devastated that what felt like the love of his life was passing him up. 

There had been no awkward, babbling confessions of love in his version.

No flushed cheeks.

No fairytale ending.

But here it was. Sitting right in front of him, trying his best to seem like he’ll be okay with whatever outcome this has.

Gilbert frowns a bit. He doesn’t think any of this will be easy between them. George was still recovering from the loss of his wife, and Lafayette knows that he’ll forever have to share the man's heart with her. He doesn’t even know if poor Alexander will be alright with this, or how either of them will tell him. Not to mention that they’re both still cautious with each other. They’re both tentative with wherever any of this is going, and fiery—though George will never admit it—and they’re wildfires of their own. It will take a while, a long while, for things between them to ever resemble a normal couple.

His frown deepens, but he reaches for George’s hands. He laces their fingers together again, decides he likes the feeling of George’s rough palms against his. Decides that even if he has to share him with a dead woman, he wants George. The frown disappears as he smiles, and moves across the table so that he can kiss him.

A proper kiss this time. Not a spur of the moment kiss they’ll both regret later, but something sweet. Something warm, that makes George unlace their fingers so he can tangle his hands in the loose locks of Gilbert’s hair. The older man tastes like bitter coffee and toothpaste, but his lips are soft enough that Gil doesn’t mind so much.

This time, when George pulls away, they both laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this feels... anticlimactic


	13. when the sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double Laf's pov, but sometimes its easier to write through his eyes

“Okay, let’s try… _Bonjour_?”

 “That’s an easy one. Hello.”

 “And…?”

 “There’s an _and_?”

George laughs when Gilbert lifts his head from his chest, the expression on his face one of either annoyance or offense. They’re basking in the sweet afterglow of sex and new romance, Lafayette tracing patterns through some of the scars on George’s body. It was odd, how such an unassuming man had accumulated so many different scars, but entrancing nonetheless. An accurate description of George, it seems. Most of them were from war—a war, that when Gil asks, gives George a cloudy look in his eyes. It’s just something to do, playing connect-the-dots with his scars. Another way to touch him, to be close to him. Something he’d been longing to do for a while.

 “Hello _and_ good morning. How is Alexander fluent and you’re _terrible_?” Gilbert whines, half-teasing, half-actually curious. George hums in thought, his finger twisting around one of Lafayette’s curls.

 “Give me another one. I’ll get better.”

" _Comment vas-tu?”_ Gil says, at the same time his phone buzzes. He ignores the tone, the faint acknowledgment that there is a world outside of these moments spent with George. He selfishly admits that he wants a few moments of quiet, a few seconds to just bask in what is and what will be.

“Where are you?” George questions, lifting Gilbert’s phone for him and squinting at the screen. Lafayette shakes his head.

“ _How_ are you.”

“No, no. I believe Alexander wants to know where you are. He is… _mon petit lion_ , right?” George says, showing him the screen. Lafayette reads the text—indeed from Alexander—and nods. Then, the phone buzzes again. And again, George reads it aloud. “‘We’re on our way to Dad's’. Why are they coming here?”

Gilbert gives a limp shrug, resting his head on George’s shoulder again. They lay there for a few moments, enjoying the last few seconds before they have to go into the real world. But then George sits up, reaches for his shirt that he’d discarded at the foot of the bed. Lafayette makes a noise of protest, pulling the other man back down onto the sheets with him. George’s chest hums with the low rumble of his laugh, as he wraps an arm around Lafayette’s shoulder and kisses his forehead.

“We can’t stay in bed forever,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in Gilbert’s ear. A shiver runs down Lafayette’s spine and a sly grin forms on his lips. It baffles him—how this time yesterday, he’d been stewing in frustration and sadness over his relationship with George. And here he was, wrapped in this amazing man’s arms, feeling as though he’s living in a dream. Could anyone blame him for not wanting it to end, for not wanting the edges of reality to bleed into the morning?

“I think I know a few ways to keep you here with me,” Gilbert whispers back, and George honestly seems to hesitate. He falters in his movements, glances longingly back at his new partner—but decides against it. Shaking his head, he kisses Gil’s temple and rises from the bed with finality. Damn.

“Maybe next time. Come on, I think your clothes are done drying,” the older man says, and there’s a bounce in his step that hadn’t been there before. Still, Gilbert falls back into the sheets—staring up at the ceiling and watching the ceiling fan spin in circles. Every muscle in his body is telling him to stay put, to fall back asleep and enjoy the serenity. Partially because he didn’t want these moments of bliss to end, but mostly because he’s not ready to face the inevitable backlash that he’ll be greeted with when Alexander realizes what had happened. They had joked about it frequently in high school and college—in fact, it’d been a running gag for John and Hercules to reference to Gil as Alexander’s ‘step-father’—, but Gilbert knows that the last thing Alexander wanted was for his best friend to have any romantic involvement with his Dad.

Eventually though, when George returns to the bedroom clutching the still warm articles of clothing, Lafayette knows that avoiding Alexander won’t be an option. Though unexpected, George’s son would be the very first obstacle their relationship would face.

“I’ll be dressed in a minute,” Gilbert mutters reluctantly, and only smiles again when George pecks his lips again.

They each get dressed in relative silence, both of their minds obviously filled with what Alexander will have to say. George finishes before Lafayette and disappears into the kitchen—to make a fresh pot of coffee, or tea for Eliza. He’s lost in thought when the doorbell eventually rings, and he barely snaps out of his trance long enough to acknowledge it. By the time he does, Lafayette has already opened the door.

There’s an argument in hushed French. Or, at least what sounds like an argument. Judging by Eliza’s expression though, it is very much an argument. George pokes his head out of the kitchen to see Lafayette backed against the wall, Alexander pointing an accusatory finger in the other man’s face. There’s a look of surprise and nervousness on Gilbert’s face, but Alexander doesn’t seem to care that he’s scaring his friend.

 _“Que fais-tu ici?”_ Alexander asks coldly, taking another step forward. If Lafayette were to press himself any further against the wall, he might just melt into the foundation.

 _“Je peux expliquer. Ne pas exploser,"_ Gilbert whines back, and Alexander gives a bitter laugh.

 _“N'explose pas? As-tu couché avec mon père ou pas?!”_ Realizing that this could very well become a violent argument—and wanting that exact thing to _not_ happen—, George crosses the space of the living room and stands between the two of them. This forces Alexander to drop his finger—he had been defiant in his youth, but had learned that testing his father caused more problems than it was worth—and shove his hands into his pockets like a petulant child. Which, in a sense, is exactly what he looks like right now.

Crossing his arms over his chest, George stares down the shorter man for a few moments before eventually Alexander relents. He finds a seat on the couch—beside Eliza, who was already sitting and absentmindedly rubbing her protruding belly. For a moment, Alexander looks like he might say something else, but he snaps his mouth shut. _That’s new._

Sighing, George takes the other seat on the couch beside Eliza—with the young girl acting as a barrier between father and son. Gilbert sits in an armchair, legs crossed and eyes focused on his hands. There’s a silence for a few long minutes before George exhales again and says, “I really do love him. Everything is moving so fast right now, I know that. But can you give us a chance?”

Alexander continues to say nothing. His own arms are now crossed, and he’s glaring a hole into the coffee table. Huffing, George turns to look at Gilbert—who gives a small shrug, though there’s a look in his eyes that says he already knew this would be difficult. If his son wanted to be difficult, that was fine. Besides he knows that this is going to be something hard to accept.

“I want you to be happy for me, Alex,” George says with finality. Gilbert reaches across the space and takes his hand, earning a small smile. “I don’t need your blessing to be with Gil, but it certainly would be a nice sentiment.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Eliza says, beaming warmly at the two of them. Ever the sweetheart, she tries to nudge her husband into agreeing—giving an exasperated look when he still won’t budge. Leaning in close, Eliza gently whispers, “Your ego will be the death of us all, my love.”

The topics the three of them talk about bounce between several things—but the one that quickly takes over is George explaining what exactly had transpired to have him _finally_ accept George’s advances. Alexander, from beside his wife, visibly stiffens at the topic—but also doesn’t make any other show of dissent, which is a step up from what his teenage self would’ve done. Eliza offers the required reactions here and there, nodding along to the story with a genuine interest. If anything, she seems over the moon that the two of them are together—she had, apparently, been hoping this very thing would happen.

When the story is finished, Eliza gives them each a hug and a warm smile before a proverbial light bulb goes off in her head—as her eyes light and she begins to dig through her purse. “Well, you guys aren’t the only ones with _wonderful_ news. We went to the doctor and found out the sex of the baby.”

Alexander’s ears perk up, but he remains closed off. George realizes immediately what she’s doing. Alexander couldn’t resist talking about his future child—in fact, he took the opportunity to brag and boast about how excited he was to be a father every other minute. Eliza knows that if she coaxes the conversation along enough, he’ll eventually warm up.

Gilbert nods, obviously playing along. “Oh, really? Are you going to wait to have a reveal party, or just tell us?”

In his seat, Alexander fidgets—leg bouncing, eyes finally lifting from the coffee table to follow the conversation. George continues, leaning back and draping his arm against the back of the couch. “There’s no need for a party. We all know little Martha—”

“It’s not a Martha,” Alexander says, and Eliza exchanges a knowing look with her father-in-law. It’s almost as if a light has switched inside of him, as his eyes light up and he sits forward in his chair. “It’s a Philip. He’s a _Philip_. And… well, I… I—I guess, when Eliza and I need a break, it’ll be a good thing to have Laf around. To y’know, help Dad out with looking after him. Old man like him can’t be running after a toddler.”

“George is not that old!”

“Oh, c’mon, Laf, he’s older than us!”

“Certainly isn’t that much of an old man in the bedro—”

“ _Hey_! That’s still my Dad. _Et tu es toujours sur ma putain de liste._ ” Lafayette rolls his eyes, seemingly unperturbed by whatever Alexander says—even despite the malice the young man says it with.

The two of them bicker back and forth—whether its playfully or not—with Eliza only occasionally butting in to mediate. It feels natural. And despite himself, George can picture plenty more holidays following in the same fashion. 

_If you only you could see us now, Martha._

* * *

  **Translations**

 **_Que fais-tu ici?_ ** — What are you doing here?

 **_Je peux expliquer. Ne pas exploser._ ** — I can’t explain. Do not explode.

 **_N'explose pas? As-tu couché avec mon père ou pas!?_ ** — Do not explode? Did you sleep with my father or not?!

 ** _Et tu es toujours sur ma putain de liste._** — And you are still on my fucking list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i listen to sunrise while writing the beginning? yes. do i have any regrets of making that comparison? no.


	14. epilogue

**_one year later_ **

George quickly learns the most unfortunate thing about spending the holidays with his family is waking up to the sound of a baby crying. He’d thought it’d be a fantastic idea for the family to go back to Mount Vernon for Christmas—to be a family again, since James had been allowed his Christmas leave this year. He was right—this had been one of the best Christmas’ he had since Martha was still alive—but having a small infant child be his alarm clock at… what, six in the morning? Definitely wasn’t ideal. Lafayette had become a bad influence—waking up this early had never been problem before.

The sound of Eliza and Alexander having a hushed argument further pulls him from the throes of sleep, until he’s wide awake and staring at the ceiling. For a few moments, he thinks he might be getting an early start to the day—but then, beside him, Gilbert stirs. Lifts his head from the pillow, blinks blearily as he looks around the still-dark bedroom and yawns.

“Phil?” he murmurs in question, snuggling into his partner’s side. His arms snake around George’s waist, and he lightly presses a kiss against George’s shoulder. Returning the affection, George kisses the top of his head.

“You are the only person in this family that calls him that,” he whispers, a smile dancing in his voice. Gilbert snorts.

“Shut up. What a jarring way to wake up.”

“He’s a baby. It’s not his fault he hasn’t learned the concept of sleeping schedules and etiquette.”

“Maybe we should teach him. Or maybe, he is on the sleep schedule of France?”

“He’s never been to France. More over, you wake up at ten at night when you’re in France?” George asks, pulling back to look Gilbert in the face. In the mornings, like this, he couldn’t be more beautiful. With his eyes still half-lidded from sleep, and his voice still husky. Gil yawns again, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

 _“Tais-toi,”_ he says again, sitting up in bed. George raises his eyebrow, to which Gilbert shrugs. “Do you want pancakes? I want pancakes.”

He doesn’t say much else, immediately rolling over and out of bed. Lafayette is quick in dressing—or rather, in pulling on some pajamas that will allow him to be presentable in front of George’s family. It’s amazing, how he could wake up that fast. Go from being a drowsy, grumpy mess to suddenly bright, and vibrant and ready to the start the day. Admirable. Even with his military background, George himself had never perfected the art of waking up quickly. It had been the one bad habit of his that Alexander had picked up.

By the time he does make his way out of bed, Lafayette has already brushed his teeth and is downstairs. George hurries himself up—moving a little faster as he goes through his morning ritual. By the time he gets dressed—in actual clothes—and downstairs, everyone is already awake and beginning the day. James and his new girlfriend, Liz—who had been the source of many jokes about the Hamilton's having a thing for Elizabeth’s—are at the table, sipping coffee and trying to wake up. Eliza is bouncing baby Philip on her hip, trying to quiet his whining as she and Lafayette move around the kitchen, making breakfast. Alexander is already at the counter, brewing a second pot of coffee—which tells George that he had almost single-handedly blown through the first pot.

“G’morning,” George greets, taking a seat beside James at the dining room table. James looks at his father, blinks sleep from his eyes and gives small nod—to which his father goodnaturedly claps him on the back. “You’re in the military now, son. Six o’clock should be a breeze for you.”

“Leave him alone, amour,” Gilbert scolds, setting a cup of coffee down in front of his boyfriend. George rolls his eyes but accepts the coffee. “He is not the only military man in this household with the inability to get up in the morning, hm?”

“Aw, Pops. You’ve got problems getting up?” James teases, smirking over the rim of his own coffee. Beside him, Liz does her best to hide her laughter by resting her head on table, and George glares across the room at his boyfriend. Lafayette flushes, shaking his head vehemently.

“That is not what I meant. _Il n'a pas de problèmes là-bas,_ trust me.” Alexander lightly shoulder-checks Lafayette as he makes his way to join his brother and father at the dining room table, and he laughs. “What? It’s true!”

“What did he say?” both James and George ask simultaneously, though they don’t receive a response. Alexander shoots them both a glare that says he’d rather die than repeat it, and so they exchange looks and back off. Besides, there isn’t much talking to do eventually—Gilbert and Eliza are setting platters of pancakes and bacon on the table. James rubs his hands together hungrily, already loading his plate with pancakes.

“Eliza, you are a godsend for the pancakes,” he compliments, after shoving a forkful in his mouth. Eliza rolls her eyes, balances Philip on her lap so that she can breastfeed. “What did Alex ever do to deserve you?”

 _“Absolument rien,”_ Gilbert grins, earning a swat on the arm from his best friend. He ignores him, taking a bit of cut-up pancake from George’s plate. George used to argue with him over it—”You have pancakes! Why do you need mine?”—but its a quirk of Laf’s, and he’s quickly learned to just let it fly. _“_ You are godsend, _period,_ Eliza. _Les meilleures mariées et les meilleures femmes._ If I weren’t gay, I imagine I might’ve had to steal you from my dear Alexandre.”

“Ha! You wish. She’s out of your league,” Alexander exclaims, kissing his wife on the cheek. She flushes warmly, leans into the kiss happily. It’s adorable. He either ignores or doesn’t hear when James coughs “and out of yours” into his plateful of pancakes. “and she’s pretty much helplessly in love with me.”

“Unfortunately,” Eliza laughs, much to her husband’s chagrin. The people around the table laugh at the response, as Alexander grumbles that she’s been spending too much time with her sister.

Underneath the table, George takes Gilbert’s hand into his lap. Gilbert squeezes it gently, flashes him a warm smile before he’s pulled into an argument by both James and Alexander. Its over something trivial, and George is mostly engaging Eliza on how motherhood is treating her rather than listening to the three of them. It’s not until he feels his hand lift from his lap and rest on the cool wood of the dining room table—in front of everyone—that he realizes he’s moved it out of secrecy. Into the open of the world—or rather, of the large dining room, where both of his sons can see. This time, when Gilbert turns to look at him, his smile is electric. He runs his thumb over the knuckles of George’s fist and leans in to kiss George gently on the cheek.

“Je t'aime,” he whispers. George knows that one, at least.

“I love you, too.”

_**fin.** _

* * *

 

**Translations**

_**Tais-toi.**_ — Shut up.  
_**Il n'a pas de problèmes là-bas.**_ — He has no problems there.  
_**Absolument rien.** _ — Absolutely nothing.  
_**Les meilleures mariées et les meilleures femmes.**_ — Best of wives (brides) and best of women.


End file.
